The Detoxify Draught
by ladyofsilverdawn
Summary: Harry suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and drinks to escape his past. He's ordered by the Head Auror to get help or lose his job. While on work leave, Harry starts having erotic dreams and soon finds himself embracing a hidden past he never thought possible. NONCON/SLASH/HET/Mystery/Drama/Action/Humor/Plot Twists/VERY MATURE THEMES/Main Pairing HEA/EWE
1. Beginning of The End

This is a story about love and self-discovery. It's dark, but also funny. It has steamy toe-curling moments, but also sweet and fluffy ones as well. This story will make you feel a range of emotions: happiness, angst, disgust, and sadness, just to name a few. The point is, if you can handle it, if you can get into the thick of the plot, it will blow your mind.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Harry/Severus

Warnings &amp; Content: Noncon/Dubcon, Canon Compliant (including Black family chan marriage and cousin incest per the Black Family Tapestry), Plot Twists, PTSD, Alcoholism, Thoughts of Suicide, Dream Sex, Not Epilogue Compliant, Character Death, Violence, Chan (only mentioned or by way of dreams), Grey!Harry

* Besides a very few differences from the epilogue, this story is written as close to known canon (before December 2014) as possible. Get to Chapter Ten and you'll see how. ;)

** I do not own anything within the Harry Potter Universe; everything created by J. K. Rowling is owned by her and her contracted associates. No money was or will be made from this work.

*** Chapters one through four, seven through thirteen, and fifteen have been beta'd by the lovely MyFirstistheFourth.

**** I will be revisiting earlier chapters, prior to Chapter Fourteen, to improve style and flow. Finished chapters will include new chapter titles.

* * *

**Beginning of The End**

A stubbled-faced man tilts his head upwards when he hears the soft beat of rain start to fall on the forest canopy above. Slogging a few more paces up an incline, he finally spies a group clad in dark robes and ducks behind a fallen-decayed tree.

As drops of sweat run down his neck and past his collar, the wizard places the tip of his wand onto his temple and whispers, "_Crescendio_."

He scrunches his brow and grits his teeth. His booming heartbeat. The stomping steps of an iridescent beetle. The forlorn cacophony of birds surrounding him. He covers his ears, attempting to control the deafening confusion. Narrowing his piercing fern-colored eyes, he wills his hearing to focus. Like tuning to a proper radio station, chaos turns to clarity, and a crisp lilting voice, strong with emotion, fills his mind.

"…was beyond courageous. I saw him for the first time during Sorting. He was such a slight, pale boy. But, every year, he grew in both stature and knowledge, and I knew, one day, he would make something of himself.

"One distinct memory I have is of him with Ms. Evans. While in Transfiguration—I believe it was their third year—he handed her a wilted-brown lily. Then from his robes, I saw him pull out a small bottle and, from it, place a single drop. An instant later, the flower burst into life, turning a cheery yellow."

Her lips twitch into a smile. "He earned Slytherin ten points for creativity that day. I should have given another ten—for love—because it had been clear how much he cared for her. Severus lost his way but found it again. I am honored to call him a Hero of the Second Wizarding War…"

The concealed man lifts a hand and, from his cheeks, wipes away tears now intermixed with raindrops. Fingers clenched around his wand, he tries to regain control of his breathing by inhaling a deep shaky breath through his mouth.

"…wished his ashes to be scattered in a peaceful location. Draco, if you will."

Draco looks down at the dark-jade urn wrapped protectively in his arms. His nostrils flare as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. Trembling, he manages to not drop the small jar as he places it safely in Headmistress McGonagall's hands. She removes and hand its silver lid back to the teary-eyed young man to hold.

"With great sadness," the Headmistress moves a wand tip over the opening of the urn, "we say goodbye to the man, who was Severus Snape." And with a broad wave of her arm, she sends the ashes swirling into the ether.

Peeking over the moss-covered log, the man uses his fingers to wipe away dirt and rain that have accumulated on the lenses of his eyeglasses. Vision improved, he watches as the spell umbrellaing the ceremony site shimmers and then fades.

Cracks from guests Disapparating join the sound of nearing thunder until only two silhouetted figures remain.

A stately woman places a wand into the hand of her remaining companion and says, "As per Severus's will, I'm leaving his wand in your care, Draco."

Head tall, Draco solemnly replies, "Thank you."

After the last two funeral attendees Disapparate, Harry leaves his hiding place and resumes his climb towards the mountain clearing. He walks forward until the toes of his worn boots dangle over nothing but air.

Reaching into an inner pocket, he pulls out a picture of Severus and his mother. The photo, still warm from his body heat, is stained and tattered, but his bloodshot eyes can clearly see a gangly little boy and a beaming little girl. They smile, run around, and then the youthful eyes of his former Potions master widen when she wraps her arms around him in a playful hug.

Before the glossy piece of paper can become too waterlogged, he lets the strengthening wind pull it from his grasp.

Harry gazes up into the rainfall. "I believe Mum must have forgiven you, Severus. I've—" He closes his eyes, licks his lips, and swallows. "I've failed you…and so many others. I hope beyond the veil you're allowed to forget the betrayals and disappointments of life."

Gazing down into the plummeting ravine he shouts, "I hate that you're another person I'll never get to know!"

After scraping moisture from his face with his woolen sleeve, in a softer voice he says, "I'm so tired of it all."

Harry stands for a few minutes in silence absorbing the gloomy vista before him.

"I've felt stuck," he quietly comments to himself. "But I'm ready to move on." He leans forward. "I'm sor—"

A howling gale from below sweeps Harry off his feet, causing him to land hard in a shocked heap. Catching his winded breath, he soon notices an icy tendril of wind caressing his left cheek and closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"Harry! Where have you been!"

"H-Hermione?" Harry asks, popping open his eyes as she and Ron quickly approach.

"Ron, tell him how worried everyone has been!"

"Yeah, mate. Mum's been beside herself. Did you hear the time wrong?" Ron pauses a moment and stares down at his friend. "Uh, Harry, why are you laying on the ground covered in mud?"

Closing his eyes, Harry turns his head away from their concerned faces.

Hermione kneels next him and covers one of his hands with hers. "Harry, are you alright?"

Harry's fists tighten for a second, but then he quietly sighs. Turning his head back around, he crookedly grins. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. You're right Ron. My ears still ring a little from the war, and I must have heard it wrong." He forces out a laugh.

Helping Harry to his feet, Hermione glances at Ron. "Come on. Let's get you out of this dreary weather."

Harry catches one last fleeting look at the grey horizon before he allows himself to be Apparated away.


	2. Dream of a Funeral & You Hear of a

**Dream of a Funeral and You Hear of a Marriage**

"N-No, please…please s-stop," sobs a supine woman covered in gashes, blood slithering down the sides of her naked, bound body and onto the rosewood table beneath her. The swirling oval patterns of the wood grain mimic the indifferent eyes of those sitting around the massive piece of furniture. Cold stone and intricately carved wood-paneled walls surround the gathered Death Eaters and their prey.

Rising from his high-backed chair, Voldemort's lipless mouth opens in a wide grin. His silken robes, looking like ink running down his body, pool on the inlaid floor and reflect the candlelight from a jeweled chandelier above.

Voldemort raises a hand, and her torture ceases. He proceeds to prowl around his sitting subjects and closer to the woman lying at the center of the table. The Death Eater he stops besides hastily rises, pulling out his chair for his master, but the Dark Lord shoos his him away and, instead of taking a seat, bends towards the woman's head.

When she feels his warm breath on her ear, she tenses, gripping her eyes shut and holding her breath, not wanting to inhale the stale stench emanating from his mouth. Cool bone-white fingers seize her face and squeeze until the woman opens her eyes, allowing him to capture her gaze.

With short, erratic breaths, she pleads, "P-Please… Mercy…mercy…"

"You need not worry about your virtue." Voldemort's face contorts with disgust. "No one here would dare desire to sully their bodies with such filth; however, you _will_ have the honor of serving our great cause."

Harshly releasing her face, he straightens his posture and, with a graceful swish of his wand, heals and cleans her body.

Satisfied, his arms melodramatically spread open, embracing the room. "I have decided to officially inform the Wizarding world of our beliefs in a manifesto. And this Mudblood's body will provide the perfect means in accomplishing that goal."

Voldemort slides his fingers down the length of his wand until he's holding it like a quill. Outstretching his hand, he begins to unhurriedly write in the air, and flowing script cuts into muscle on the thrashing woman's face.

When her screams have turned into whimpers and her blood lacquers the table, Voldemort asks, "Do you still believe in your hero, Harry Potter, my dear?" Chuckling, he continues, "Is he going to burst through those doors and _save_ your inconsequential life?" The pale woman doesn't immediately respond, and he snarls, "Answer me!"

Whimpering, she softly replies, "He will s—"

"Suffer! And then, _Avada Kedavra_!"

A shriek of laughter along with murmurs and claps of approval soon follow. Gliding back to the head of the table, his fiery coal eyes glow with amusement. "Travers, be sure to hang her body in a well-_traversed_ location." His bad pun fills the drawing room with quiet laughter.

Face blank, Travers responds, "Yes, my Lord."

Eyes glinting in glee and showing the reflection of Nagini, Voldemort asks, "Did you enjoy the show Harry?"

Harry gasps awake, heart racing. Sitting up, he slaps his fingers to his forehead, but no pain radiates from his scar, and he sighs in relief. The nightmare was only a memory, so many horrific memories. He shudders and pulls his blankets up to his chin. The war veteran had made it a point to never trouble others with the details of what he endured, about the sick game Tom played with him once the madman had become aware of their mental link.

As his pulse pounds in his head, he glances to his left and huffs. Ginny's side of the bed lies cold and empty. Glimpsing out a leaded-glass window overlooking the countryside, he could see the hushed glow from the rising sun.

Harry groans and droops his head in defeat. He tosses the covers from his body, rolls out of bed, and crosses his arms over his chest, already regretting the loss of warmth. Shivering, Harry grabs his dressing gown from a wall peg and, as he shoves the tattered fabric onto his body, he speaks the ancient word _Ora_ in his mind. _Half_-_past_-_six_ flutters through his consciousness. _Shit_! He has less than thirty minutes to get ready.

As he reaches for his wand on a well-used antique nightstand, his fingers knock over an empty glass that he barely saves from falling off the edge. Wand firmly in hand, Harry braces himself and shouts, "_Off_." All at once, his dressing gown flies back onto its hook; his t-shirt shoots above his tousled head, landing in an open hamper, and his pyjama trousers and boxer-briefs plummet to the hardwood floor. After kicking off the clothes cuffing his ankles, he sprints to the lavatory and turns the shower knob, blasting on the water.

Harry swats the shower curtain aside and steps into the porcelain tiled stall. A short breath catches in his throat and hisses out. Darting his scarred figure away from the scalding stream, he adjusts the water to a comfortable temperature. As he scrubs his body with shower gel, the soft suds rinse away the remnants of his Friday-night drunk. Harry, feeling refreshed, wrenches the dial and stops the warm flow.

Faint lines shimmer on his right arm when he pushes it past the edge of the curtain into the building dawn. Harry pats his hand on the counter until he feels the familiar shape of his wand. As droplets glide down the well-worn holly rod, he casts a hot-air charm, drying himself off.

Hopping down from the enclosure, Harry snatches Ginny's hair brush. Without looking, he sweeps the bristles through his dark locks, which falls down to his shoulder blades. From a clear crystal dish, he places a small white-and-blue-specked breath-remedy tablet into his mouth and chews. Moving his tongue over his teeth and gums, he savors the resulting cool tingles.

Harry runs to his closet and yanks out the required undergarments, a pair of black leather trousers, and a grey jumper. He also grabs his Ministry issued drab brown Auror robes which had been flung over the back of a corner chair.

After putting on his outfit, he catches himself pushing at the bridge of his nose with his index finger. Snorting, Harry once again thanks the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for correcting his vision. Before leaving the room, he shoves his feet into Horntail-hide boots.

Soles coated with dried debris scrape against steep narrow steps as Harry marches down from the landing. He enters the kitchen and spots his wife wearing her dark green Quidditch robes, her scarlet hair twisted in a tight bun crowning her head. While she pours two cups of tea, steam drifts toward the copper-sheeted ceiling.

"You could have let me known I'd overslept."

Raising a beverage in each fingerless-gloved hand, Ginny turns around, and an emblazoned talon on the front of her uniform catches the light. Her plain lips tense together, and she sighs. "I'm not your mother, Harry."

Under his breath Harry mumbles, "Yeah, you're only my wife."

Her outstretched arm jolts and retracts. Ginny backs away a step, turns around, and thumps one drink on the embroidered tablecloth. Walking to the far side of the bruised table, she collapses into a cream painted chair covered in scrapes. As gloved-palms and weathered fingers nest the blue china cup, she inhales the scent of herbs and fruit. Closing her eyes, her chapped lips take a sip of the semi-opaque drink.

Nostrils flaring, Harry stomps to pick up his own cup. When he starts striding towards a tall oak cabinet, her amber eyes squint and back straightens. Her freckle flanked glower follows his every move. When he opens the framed pane of glass. When he pulls out a bottle of Blishen's Firewhisky. And when he fills his cup to the brim.

Feeling her glare stabbing into his back, Harry slams the door shut and twists around, sloshing the strong liquid over its rim. "What!"

Eyes filled with scorn, she mutters, "Do you even have to ask." As silence permeates the room, tears begin to pool under her lashes. "When are you going to start thinking about our family and not just yourself?"

"I do think about our family! Dad, Mum, Ted—"

Rolling her eyes, she shouts, "I mean _us_, Harry!" She places her fingertips on her chest and then quickly motions her hands back and forth between them. "We've been married for three years and—"

"You _know_ how I feel about having children. You know!"

She soars to her feet and rushes toward him. "The world isn't that bad a place, Harry." Clasping her palms together, she continues, "I've been asking the same questions for five years. What's wrong? What can I do to help? Why do you keep pushing me away! I don't know how much longer I can take this. _This_!" His wife clenching her fists causes her tan glovelettes to scrunch. She glances down at the drops of spilt tea and watches as her tears join them on the worn floor. Pressing her lips together, she inhales through her nose until her chest can no longer expand and then exhales in a lengthy sigh. Shaking her head, she says, "Never mind. It's a miracle you haven't been sacked—or killed—yet."

With sharp movements, the Holyhead Harpies' Seeker unstraps and retightens her gloves, making sure her gear is ready for the short-flight to work. Clearing her throat, she says in a calmer voice, "After practice, I'm attending Valmai's baby shower and then visiting Hermione and, and," her voice wavering, finishes, "a few of my teammates for dinner."

Harry's eyes soften and he grasps her hand. "Ginny, I—"

"No!" She yanks from his hold. "I don't want to hear another apology. I'll be out late. You needn't wait up." Picking up her broom, a Prism Pro 3000, its bristles still crisp and handle still glossy, Ginny adds, "Oh, and Malfoy's letter arrived. I placed it next to the sink." Head high, she leaves the kitchen without a backwards glance.

Shoulders slumped, Harry walks towards the large enameled butler sink. He places his drink on the marble countertop and lifts an envelope made out of thick soft parchment. A large ebony wax seal stamped with a sinuous _M_ fastens it shut.

Soon after the war had ended, Draco commenced owling the same, exact, letter. No matter what spell Harry cast to prohibit delivery, the owl found its way. At first, Harry would receive a letter once a week; now, it's every day.

Moments tick by as his absinthe-shaded eyes focus on the untouched tepid beverage in front of him. Shortly shorn fingernails pick at the edge of the supple paper until it begins to tear. _It's only a dram. What could it hurt_? Harry bites his lip, leaving a deep indentation, lifts the drink, and swallows it down in a few large gulps. Tossing the unread correspondence in the air, he murmurs, "_Incendio_," and feels a burst of heat on his face. With a wry grin and lowered lids, he watches as ash floats down into the eggshell white basin below.

After exiting his modest residence secluded in a small corner of Godric's Hollow, Harry turns around and gazes at the front door. The entrance holds a moving stained-glass window, a red _P_ floating in its center. Around the crimson letter, a phoenix and lion dance. The radiant bird would tug on the lion's tail, and the large feline would bat at the phoenix. Most people when they first visit assume the letter stands for Potter; when in actuality, it stands for Prewett: Mrs. Weasley's family.

During the First Wizarding War, Mrs. Weasley's only two brothers had died while defending their Manor as it burned to the ground. The single thing to survive on the estate was the chamberlain's cottage. It had remained abandoned and in disrepair until Mrs. Weasley asked if Harry would like to fix it up as a wedding gift for Ginny.

Heaving a sigh, Harry locks the door with a goblin-crafted iron key. Once the bolt clicks, the exterior of the house flashes varying colors as multiple wards activate. The first toll of bells from the Parish Church of St. Clementine sounds and, without wasting another second, Harry Apparates to work, ribbons of smog twisting above the doorstep.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Seven pounds and twenty-three pence. Harry plunks the money back into his tin can and sighs. After sitting cross-legged on hard pavement for three hours, he rocks on his rump trying to increase the blood flow to his legs. A warming charm helps battle the brisk autumn day, but nothing can relieve his foul mood—except maybe nabbing the evil git he's been hunting for the past year.

Harry notices the morning rush beginning to shift into the afternoon lunch crowd. As packs of muggle tourists meander by hip new restaurants and theaters, flashes of cameras burst throughout the bustling street of the revitalized Soho District.

Stranger after stranger pass Harry without a second glance; No one pays heed to the tramp huddled on the steps of an unopened storefront clad in soiled pants, baggy shirt, and torn trench coat.

Muggle London politicians tout the new up-and-coming, family-friendly neighborhood; it no longer being the debauched red-light draw it once was, but Harry knew better. Once a monster sets up its lair, it's difficult to eradicate. Like a hydra, you cut off one head and another grows in its place; the subsequent one, having learned from its predecessor's mistake, emerging even stronger. The beast might retreat for a while giving you a sense of security, but once the safe light of day begins to dim, it comes out to play and lure its next victim. To truly vanquish a monster, you need to destroy its heart.

Across the one lane street, the door to a tattoo parlor whispers open, and an attached "Closed" sign ticks back and forth. Harry stills and slits his eyes. A man wearing khaki slacks, a navy polo shirt, and a gunmetal grey windbreaker saunters onto the pavement. When he walks away, Harry notices a red blotch on the man's neck and stiffens.

Once the man rounds the corner, the auror leaps to his feet and places a hand in his pocket wrapping fingers around his wand handle. He crosses the road and commences jogging after his target, keeping a discreet distance.

The man turns into a shaded alley. As he strolls deeper between the two man-made mountains, the scurrying escape of rats nudging bits of refuse can be heard. Harry keeps low and flush against one brick wall of the lonely back street. Drawing his wand, he creeps towards his quarry and hides behind a large olive dumpster.

Harry watches as the man places a hand inside his jacket, pulls out a gun, and places the tip of the barrel onto his own temple.

A shimmering light cascades over the man. His banal muggle clothes morph into affluent carmine robes. His hair changes from a dull brown to a rich honey blond, and his unmemorable face transforms into sharp planes. Lastly, the gun in his hand reshapes into a long mahogany wand.

Before the revealed wizard can flick, Harry moves from his hiding place and casts an anti-disapparition jinx. The cruel faced man stumbles back but twists with the momentum, falling onto his hands and knees. Harry throws a disarming charm; the man rolls before it can hit.

The auror dives behind the large trash bin. A bright emerald beam blazes past where he once stood and out into the open street. The shrill scream of a woman and worried murmurs echo through the narrow passage.

A piercing screech and clatter of metal tug Harry away from the mounting sounds of concern. Harry pokes out his head, and the man, now from an above old fire escape, discharges another curse in his direction.

The dumpster in front of him explodes. Putrid garbage flies into air, and Harry slams against brick and mortar. Sprawled in a heap, Harry groans and rubs his head with a hand while he clambers onto his feet. Swaying in the direction of the stairs, Harry notices the pull-down ladder gone and finds a bubbling molten puddle on the asphalt.

The pounding of the perpetrator's shoes cease to beat. Without pause, Harry jogs back a couple paces and then hurdles forward. The sheer will of his magic propelling him the extra inch required for his hands to latch on to the iron scaffolding.

After lifting himself up, Harry notes a fine red dust covering his palms, pats his hands on his thighs, and scrambles up the steps.

Lungs tight and burning, a clear view of cloudless sky opens before him. He grimaces when a stinging bead of sweat slips into one eye. As Harry lifts his head above an eroded partition, he shouts, "_Protego_!"

Coiling black tentacles hit his protective barrier. Cracks start to form and glow until the shield crumbles into a rain of sparks. The man continues to flee, soaring from one roof to the next, looking like a drop of blood sliding along a concrete wall.

Harry maintains pace with him casting cushioning and acceleration charms as needed. Funnels of greasy vapor float from corroded steel pipes and fill Harry's nostrils with every inhale.

The man nearing the cliff of buildings slows and glances at Harry from over his shoulder; a mischievous smile cuts underneath high cheek bones. Polished wood glimmers near the crook of his adversary's neckline, and a raspy voice bellows, "_Confringo_!"

An eruption of orange magma from the man's wand roars towards Harry before the dark wizard leaps off the roof. Harry gasps, braces his lower limbs and screams, "_Aguamenti_!" An icy blue torrent barrels out from Harry's wand. His ears pop from the colliding spells; the impact causing the sandy floor to melt. As scalding steam sizzles, Harry grits his teeth from the searing pain while radiant heat eats into the flesh of his hands and face. Not letting his burnt skin distract him, the auror darts around a large patch of newly made scorched glass and carries on his pursuit.

Sirens from emergency vehicles howl at each other in the distance. Harry makes his way to the ledge and looks down. A group of muggles surround a crater, the breadth of the walkway, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders. One woman points to a sign affixed to a wrought iron lamppost that reads "RUPERT STREET" and then gestures down the road. Turning towards the indicated direction, Harry sees another sign wavering in distant car exhaust. A narrow-eyed grin appears on his blistered face.

The determined wizard's breaths come fast as he winds his wand about his body as if he were wrapping himself in ropes. After the end of his wand stops its star-like shine, his body wavers, and his shadow disappears.

Next, his reddened hand yanks a crystalline vial from an inner pocket; gold liquid refracts within the caterpillar-sized bottle. He twists off the copper cap and swallows the potion that tastes of sour apples and ocean water. Screwing his mouth in distaste, Harry begins to feel prickles crawl from his apex and down under his clothing. His veins become more pronounced and turn an intense metallic green. Soon one big silver sage-colored bruise overwhelms his form. As soon as the discoloration begins to dissipate and healed tissue emerges, the auror disapparates away with a muffled puff.

A second later, Harry appears next to a large descending tunnel. Above it, a plaque announces it as the Piccadilly Circus Underground Station.

Cries of startlement and shouts of ire draw his attention. A tall hooded figure in vermilion garments speeds in his direction. Shadowed cold eyes look past Harry, and the rude man continues to shove people, including Harry, out of his way. With one last glance behind him, the dark wizard rushes down the stairwell. Harry matches the rhythm of the man's steps and follows him down a long hallway of gleaming white tile until the man escapes behind the unmarked door of a caretaker's closet.

Harry places his ear on the blank paper-white door and after hearing nothing, without making it rattle, tries the stainless-steel knob. Not budging, Harry whispers, "_Alohomora_." His fingers curled around the shiny handle turn without resistance. Protecting most of his body behind with the wall, Harry flings open the door—and finds it's empty.

He shifts long dark strands of hair sticking to the sides of his sweaty face and frowns. The small dingy vault about a full arm span in both depth and width sits undisturbed, unthreatening, and unremarkable.

Harry thinks the word _Lumos_ and a soft radiance reveals the nooks and crannies of the closet. He investigates the interior from top to bottom and uncovers nothing.

"Damn it!" A splash and clang reverberate after he kicks over a soapy-water-filled bucket. Calming his breathing, he walks out the door.

Harry turns around. His deep green eyes stare at the dark rectangular opening.

He shrugs his shoulders, holds his breath, and sprints without hesitation into the closet.

The auror trips from a stone wall into a gloomy and sinister back way. A row of menacing structures seem to lean over Harry like intimidating sentinels. Creeping closer to a plain wooden door, he spots a scrawled symbol, a wingless dragon, with curved thorns growing from its spine, writhing in the shape of an "S". The wizard realizes he's standing by the rear exit to The Spiny Serpent in Knockturn Alley.

Harry shuts his eyes, and as he breathes out, his shoulders sag. By now, there's no telling where the nit could be. Nails biting into his palms, he begins to turn away until something catches his eye. On the cast-iron doorknob lies a fresh smear of rust.

He studies his palms; the meat of his hands, covered in a layer of burgundy residue, look like he crawled on the surface of Mars—or up an oxidized fire escape. Before his fingers can surround the smooth orb, the throb of strong wards give warning.

Harry takes a few steps backwards in thought staring at the fortification of businesses. His eyes squint and he slowly turns and begins to jog toward the main thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Three strong knocks strike the door to Moribund's, a rare—and often illegal—creature shop.

The round door, a solid piece of black-stained sequoia, resembles the whirlpool monster Charybdis in his dark sea home about to swallow an unsuspecting victim. Heavy boots thud from behind the door and a copious number of locks unfasten with a barrage of clicks.

As the entry cracks open, Harry's throat tightens and his eyes water from the smell of feed and animal waste. A black iris floating in too much white peers at him.

"Wha' cha be wantin'?" husks a low voice.

"Mr. Moribund would it be possible to use your facilities?"

"My wha'?"

Hopping from foot to foot, Harry implores, "I need to use the loo." He then leans forward and whispers, "By any chance have you seen my _lost_ pet?" Harry lifts a flattened hand a few inches above his head. "About so high. A shaggy mutt with green fur."

Moribund opens the bulky wooden saucer a smidgen wider. "Green ya say."

Like a Shar Pei, the shopkeeper's mouth scrunches exaggerating his many wrinkles. He gnaws his lower lip and scrutinizes Harry a few more moments before he drawls, "Ya need ta be usin' da _facilities_."

Harry bobs his head, fingers fidgeting, and glances behind his back.

Moribund fully opens the mammoth entryway and gestures for him to enter. "I m'ave foun' sucha beast."

The stocky man wears stained pants, a wrinkled linen shirt, and a loose leather robe that resembles a duster. Harry notices the similarities of their garb and stifles a grin. The key differences in their wardrobe are Moribund has an enchanted whip clipped to his belt and sports an akubra, a felt hat with a wide brim.

Harry surveys the shop and sees a floor-to-ceiling wall of various sized and constructed cages; the gravity defying structure sways like a cobra from the imprisoned creatures' movements. Chatters, roars, and hisses along with snapping and tearing bleed from the giant space.

Crossing the threshold, the sensation of thawing ice pours over Harry's body. Wards begin to melt his disguise revealing his tan woolen auror robes and normal facial features.

The shop owner's face pales. He backs away and stutters, "Auror Potter, sir. I was jestin'; I 'ave na' seen da dog ya 'ave described."

Harry steps to the side to view what inhabits the small iron pen behind Moribund's body, and indeed, it is a highly coveted—and highly endangered—Cù-Sìth under the effects of a shrinking charm.

Sweat starts to bead above the merchant's scarred lip. Harry, not being able to repress a laugh, asks, "Mr. Moribund, your lavatory?"

Looking at Harry like he was mad, he says, "It' upstairs. Four' door on da left."

"Ah, yes. Perfect." Smiling and thanking the squirming man, Harry proceeds to the second floor.

Mounted heads adorn every inch of the wall above the stairwell. Towards the bottom, above scratched ebony wainscoting, the heads of creatures such as pixies and grindylows hang like holiday ornaments. Near the lofty ceiling, the gaping mug of an Antipodean Opaleye dragon tops the macabre display. As Harry ascends, the glassy eyed stares of the myriad creatures follow his climb.

A tall door squeaks and exposes a shallow but wide bathroom. Chipped black marble tile and peeling maroon wallpaper give it a claustrophobic air. Harry strides toward a copper sink in the shape of a dragon egg. He turns on the brass faucet and a wavering stream runs over his left hand. Satisfied, Harry moves to the far right corner of the room and places a damp thumbprint on the paisley patterned paper. He takes a few more paces and stamps his index finger, repeating the process until all five digits have left their moist impressions at regular intervals.

Harry swings his wand out in front of him from left to right and murmurs, "_Aquacidum_."

Dark red drops run down the side of the wall like ichor. They grow to trickles and then steady streams as the water spots transform into acid and burrow straight through the wall.

After the curse completes, little holes pierce the barrier and gape like blank eyes—all but one. From the slit to the far left, the faint glow of flickering firelight can be seen.

Harry progresses closer to the glistering wound in the wall. A thump and subsequent whimper fills his ears.

"How could I have been discovered!" screams a muffled hoarse voice. Another round of pounding hits batter against soft flesh.

A shaft of light aligns with Harry's poisonous green eye, and he absorbs the scene before him.

An elongated arm smothered in a florid velvet sleeve shakes a small limp body. A little boy.

Harry's teeth grind and his heart speeds. With controlled focus, he says, "Expulso." A blue blast flashes and swathes Harry in a layer of radiance like burning arsenic. Brick and plaster detonate.

The dark wizard recoils away from the tumult, and a few pebbles pelt his bent back. His fist jars, and the child crumbles to the ground.

Releasing his clenched jawbone, gums aching from the pressure, Harry slashes his wand in a hard motion and bellows, "_Sectumsempra_!"

Harry's target shrieks and drops to his knees. The man's crimson robes begin to darken from his left shoulder to his right hip. Wet muscle and sinew leer.

Striding around to face his kneeling enemy, Harry's steel-toed boot socks into the injured man's stomach causing him to fall onto his back. Wreckage bites into his lesion and he gasps.

"Where are the rest of them!" Harry kicks the man again in the ribs. "Where are they!"

Bitter eyes bore through Harry with disdain. "The famous do-gooder, Harry Potter. No need for your sullied blood to boil." Two rows of perfect teeth materialize between the man's sneering lips. Glancing at the small unmoving pale mound, the bleeding man says, "If you wanted a taste of the boy, all you need do was ask."

Harry's pupils shrink to minute obsidian shards. Face relaxed, he smiles and says, "_Crucio_."

The man's body contorts billowing red fabric; his arm, a knee, his chest creating mountains that would collapse and then reform. Like the creation of the Earth's surface, how long the man writhed was interminable until Harry stops and again asks, "Where. Are. They."

The man curls up onto his side and blubbers.

Harry catches movement in his peripheral vision. A diminutive form sways to his bare feet. Dark blue almost black eyes, which have learned the hard lesson that faith and hope are for fools who believe people never lie and aren't vulnerable to fear, gaze at Harry. The auror recognizes the boy's vacant stare and has observed it numerous times throughout his life. The same look can be found on all lost souls, including his.

The boy's treble voice states, "He cannot say, Master," and touches a mark over his chest and then peeks at his tormentor's nape.

His entire body was veiled in magically infused tattoos which obstruct most of his features. Over his heart sits a crimson circle, a clone to the spot on back of the gibbering man's neck. An azure blue border surrounds the red sun and from it, henna-like flowing lines and abstract flowers twist around the child's arms, legs, all the way to his fingers and toes; even his scalp under wilted black hair wasn't left untouched. The designs pulse and glitter with power making him resemble a solitary deep sea fish.

No scars mar the boy's skin. No bruises blemish his body. To suffer countless sessions of torment but have no physical proof you endured it was unconscionable.

Harry squats down keeping his wand at the ready and aimed at the moaning wizard.

Now closer to the child's height, he gently inquires, "What's your name?"

Face remote, the boy replies, "I am unworthy of a name, Master."

Staunching his crested tears, Harry clears his throat and asks, "If I required your presence, what word would I speak?"

"The word you would speak, Master," he bows, "would be Scrap."

"Scrap, do you remember where you're home was before you were taken?"

The little boy frowns and his expression unfocuses a moment. "No home." He slowly shakes his head then pauses a second before he says, "An orphanage, Master."

"Where was this orphanage?"

"It was…" Scrap's teeth clench and his skinny arms shake by his sides.

Harry senses his objective beginning to slip from his grasp and feels the prickle of desperation slither down his spine. "You can't say."

The boy's head gives a small nod. Lifting his hand, Scrap pinches and rubs Harry's wool robes between his fingers. With an intense expression, he tries to communicate so much that must be left unsaid. The boy's fist spasms around the fawn-dyed material, tugs once hard, and then releases in defeat.

"I want to help them and you. Can you _show_ me where they are?"

Droplets of perspiration form paths through the thin film of chalky dust which covers the boy. Scrap gasps and clutches his hand over the sphere on his chest. Harry guesses the tattoo must be a type of the Imperius. Usually, the curse is performed painlessly and once given, generates a feeling of peace. Only a monstrous sadist would apply it on a child as a painful tattoo.

Scrap sinks to the filthy hardwood floor and kneels in supplication. "I apologize, Master. What can I say that would please you?"

A crease divides Harry's troubled eyes. He places a hand on the boy's chilled shoulder and encourages him to lift his head. Scrap flinches at the touch. Twilight dark pools reflect Harry's concerned visage…and a movement from behind.

The auror shoves the child to the side and rolls towards the invader. Harry kicks up his legs and handsprings to his feet.

A smooth accented tenor says, "_Petrificus Totalus_."

Harry immediately drops and bounds into frontward roll.

The curse flies over Harry's tumbling body and hits his prior assailant who was attempting to rise from a lake of blood. The dueling wizards barely notice as the blond man falls over stiff like a stout cherry tree. A splat sounds, and a wraith of dust undulates from his prone body.

Instead of flinging another ranged spell, the new wizard tackles the auror to the ground. Harry's holly wand cartwheels and clatters to the floor. The impact forcing the air from his lungs in a sudden rush. His head smacks the stone hearth, and embers explode in his skull like fireworks, mimicking the wood popping in the hot alcove.

Harry struggles beneath the weight of his enemy. He tries to make out his attacker's features but a spell camouflages them as a blur. The dark wizard's hands are encased in scarlet Liondragon gloves. His right hand holds a long yew wand and his left hand slams towards Harry's chest.

Once the dark wizard forces contact over the auror's heart, Harry's aggressor gasps and throws his head back. His eyes briefly flutter shut.

Agony. Unfathomable agony.

Pain consumes Harry's whole body. The Cruciatus Curse stimulates pain receptors, but this, this is a hundredfold worse. This is his very essence, his magic, being eaten away.

The amount of anguish stuns Harry. He forces his mind to accept the pain and starts emerging from the layers of torment that drown his will.

And then the man places his silken mouth on Harry's.

Like a conduit connecting, pulses of pure ecstasy slide from Harry's lips, down his neck, over his nipples and fill his cock. Harry pushes deeper into the kiss, never wanting the bliss to end. So much temptation to surrender. To let the rapture take him away from the pain of _living_. To take him away forever.

The wizard rubs against Harry's rigid member and both their chests vibrate in pleasure. Harry opens his mouth further and the sound of their teeth knocking penetrates his ears…and something else. Sobbing.

The boy.

Harry could not fail the boy.

The auror forces his head to the side and breaks the passionate link. A streak of cooling spittle from the dark wizard's mouth grazes his right cheek. Harry cries out as he feels his soul starts to fracture.

Jaw tight, Harry's quaking arm reaches for the dark wizard's idle right hand and then yanks back and down as hard as it can. A sharp snap echoes by the auror's left ear.

"No!" the dark wizard wails.

One half of the yew stick smolders, then ignites. Harry strains and his fingers nudge the tip of the other sliver. The wizard removes his hand from Harry's breast bone and attempts to regain control.

The auror's body wracks with tremors from shock but succeeds in claiming the wand shard; he plunges the jagged stake into the dark wizard's carotid artery.

Harry plucks and discards the wood remnant behind his head to share its twin's fate. He lifts his arms around the man's shoulder blades and forces his adversary into an embrace. Life blood that should be supplying the wizard's brain gushes from his neck and seeps into both their robes.

The hemorrhaging man grabs Harry's head and beats it against hewn granite until the auror's sight begins to blacken, enabling him to escape.

With each pump of the wizard's heart, more gore wicks down into every fiber of his garments. The man picks up Scrap and places the child's hand over his injury then staggers away.

Harry crawls over the tacky ground towards the pile of rubble where his wand lies. After reclaiming his magical sidekick, he continues as fast as he can on his hands and knees following the trail of smeared crimson blots. Knees bruised, the splatters lead him to a wide wall. A static painting of Herpo the Foul and his coiled viridescent basilisk spans its entirety and blocks his path.

The auror uses the canvas to raise himself to his feet and groans as the room appears to stretch and contract.

Harry shakes his head to clear his vision and says, "_Finite_."

Paint dissolves into a multicolored viscous sludge. The oily substance churns toward the black center of a vortex. A loud crack reverberates, and the conjuration vanishes exposing a great room.

At the far end of a dim long meeting hall, stand three massive marble fireplaces reflecting light like black glass. The outmost hearths taunt with orange and blue tongues of fire.

Climbing over tipped tables and benches strewn over the floor, Harry races towards the escaping man.

The outer edges of the dark wizard's body mirrors the two blazes until the unused middle stone recess swallows his frame.

Reaching out towards Scarp with his empty hand, Harry yells, "Stop!"

A handful of silvery powder cascades. The abductor murmurs.

The auror, now within range, flings a hex at the wizard's feet not wanting to hit the boy held tightly to the man's chest.

A bleak green pyrocumulus cloud whooshes—and they're gone.

With a fizzle, Harry's spell disintegrates.

High-voiced bickering captures the auror's attention. He twists his body in the direction of the racket, another spell on the edge of his tongue.

Blending into the shadows, a cluster of about a dozen children halts his attack. From the snippets of clothing some of them have managed to keep, the auror deduces this is the latest group of kidnapped muggle children.

Harry falls to his knees in bittersweet relief.

For the past eleven, almost twelve months, Harry has been following leads to the kingpin of a trafficking ring. The criminal organization specializes in stealing young muggles and selling them to the magical elite. A few children had been no older than five. The auror couldn't understand why anyone would desire to spend so much money on such depravity; he could only be incensed by it.

Harry stands, and as he walks closer, waves his wand above his head. The illumination from wall sconces banishes the darkness. Tiny gasps sound and their little bodies huddle closer to each other—all except for two.

A slight boy and girl, both with mops of auburn hair, stand and glare defiantly at one another. Their voices again increase in volume and Harry intercedes, "Why are you yelling at each other?"

Grey eyes like hot springs on a snow-covered mountain drift to Harry. "I think you're a policeman," the little girl asserts.

Blazing blue eyes that still hold hope also turn toward the auror. The younger boy shouts, "A policeman don't dress like that! You're an angel aren't cha?"

Harry shakes his head with a melancholy smile. He was the farthest thing from an angel. Self-destructive. Selfish. Imperfect.

The little girl runs to him. She hugs his legs and pillows her face into his sodden robes. Gazing up, she tilts her head in dismay and affirms, "But you're special." Her eyes open wide, "You're a superhero!"

A small closed-mouth grin reaches Harry's eyes.

"We promise we won't tell nobody your secret," the sprite-like girl continues furtively. All the children nod their heads in emphatic agreement.

After assuring the children that help was on its way, Harry pulls a lavender piece of parchment from his robes. He then places his wand to his temple and delicately draws it away. Silver strands emerge from his head and cling to the wood tip. The wisps float onto the blank document and like ethereal tentacles grab-and-fold until a simple airplane rises from the auror's palm.

The paper plane flies around the room whizzing over the children's heads in playful loops until Harry tosses floo powder into the center hearth. A burst of lime sparks halos Harry's body.

The brunette boy whispers, "See. What'd I tell you? An angel."

Harry produces another violet sheet. He tears off a small section and transfigures it into a soft blanket and continues until every child is enveloped in warmth.

The fireplace flares and four aurors and two mediwizards arrive. After Harry explains the situation, one mediwitch hands Harry a potion to cure his concussion. She also prescribes that he visit a healer at St. Mungo's for further evaluation without delay.

The auror smiles in assurance and makes his way back to the room where the stabilized wizard still lies motionless on the floor.

Harry crouches and hovers his head directly over the helpless man's line-of-sight. The wizard's eyeballs wobble in terror.

Harry coldly simpers, "Don't worry. No smooches for you."

The auror leans closer to the dark wizard's ear and hisses, "You are very, _very_ lucky backup arrived so quickly. A monster like you doesn't deserve such a reprieve." A side-effect of the full body-bind curse is that it regulates the circulatory system, lessening blood loss. Pity.

Huffing he continues, "Unfortunately, your sorry excuse of a life must continue _safely_ behind the bureaucracy of the Ministry."

Harry bends and places his lips on the man's cheek. "Guess, I lied."

Leaving the terrified wizard behind, Harry, sore and exhausted, descends the stairs and out the back exit of the dark arts fraternity building. He chastises himself for only managing to cut off one head from the beast and not destroy its heart. The real monster escaped, and all of his next victims would be on Harry's shoulders, including Scrap.

Another failure to add to his long list.

He rubs his face with both hands and flings them to his sides with a snarl. God! He needs a, a—_strong drink_.

Harry alters his outer shell hiding his blood-soaked robes and returns to muggle London through the hidden passageway.

A nice pub waits for him just around the block.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

"Potter!"

Behind Harry, the staccato clap of leather-soled Oxfords quickens. "Potter, damn it! Stop. I know it's you!"

Harry grimaces. He's managed to avoid the pompous git for five years, and of all days, _today_ is the day the blighter catches him.

Movements unsteady, Harry regrets indulging in one more round before returning to the Ministry. At least, he still has enough sense to remember possible repercussions, should he try to restore his previous conjured mask. Bugger it all! The auror curses the fickleness of facial transformations. Why did they have to dissolve so much faster than inanimate ones?

Attempting to elude his pursuer, Harry heads down a random utilitarian hallway. Before his next turn, darting with confidence, he thinks ah, yes, this should lead him straight to...a dead end.

"Fuck," grouses Harry under his breath.

The footfalls following Harry stop. "Nowhere to run, Potter."

Harry sighs. Hair flaring above his shoulders as he pivots around on one foot, he asks, "What'd you want, Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy's steel eyes pinch. "Are you telling me, you haven't opened, even one letter?"

Harry's face, like a statue, remains impassive and unmoving, almost haughty.

The former Death Eater studies Harry's appearance. Instead of typical auror robes, Harry wears a tailored silk sable muggle business suit. His _Avada Kedavra_-imbibed eyes are heavy lidded and dilated. His stubbled cheeks are flushed and lips bruised, like the ever faithful hero had an earlier snogging session with the she-weasel. Harry's mien appears relaxed, handsome, and quite like a rakish rogue. Bloody Gryffindor.

Stepping into Harry's personal space, Draco says, "Trying to act the part of a noble pureblood with the long locks," then finishes spitting, "Potter."

"I like that it gives th' finger to those who still believe in that outdated custom," Harry raises his brows and stares pointedly at Malfoy, "and t' be honest, I've more important things t' worry 'bout than my hair," giving his old school nemesis' coiffed mane a sneer. The pesky Slytherin resembles his father so much; it's uncanny.

Malfoy's cultured voice replies, "It's my responsibility, as heir, to undertake important duties as my station requires. I must look the part to ensure respect from my peers and personnel." Sighing in exasperation, "We are no longer children. Can we not have an adult conversation?"

Hearing the word children, an image of Scrap's distraught face flashes before Harry, and he stumbles forward.

Arms wrap around the auror, steadying him. "Potter, are you ill?" Malfoy detects the pungent whiff of alcohol and in disbelief, asks, "Are you smashed?"

"I might've partaken a drink 'r two." Or ten.

While Malfoy's hands slide from around Harry's waist to the front of his shoulders, helping him to right himself, Harry ponders the berk's cologne. A rich woodsy scent. Most likely agarwood, a rare aromatic resin…and something else, slightly sweet. Humming in thought—ambergris. Both items are incredibly expensive but unexpectedly non-magical. Any muggle with a large enough bank account would be able to acquire them. Surprising. The auror assumed the spoiled brat would never stoop to place such mundane ingredients on his body.

Harry's eyes slowly roam up Malfoy's immaculate Egyptian blue robes to his face. Gone are the dark under-eye circles and the gaunt cheeks that he carried during the war. His eyes once again sparkle with the faintest hint of shadow, and his cheekbones balance his patrician features.

The Gryffindor has always been aware of his childhood enemy's cold refined beauty. Harry licks his lips and clenches his fists. Since the start of quidditch season, Ginny has been "too tired" or "not in the mood." Harry thinks it's probably her passive-aggressive way of punishing him. The previous incident today with the dark wizard exacerbated rather than soothed his ongoing sexual frustration.

A small oval tin, labeled Prionsa's Breath Remedies, materializes on Malfoy's palm. Harry watches as the pureblood pops off the lid and picks up a tiny red-flecked white brick with his thumb and index finger.

"Here."

Malfoy opens his mouth, lifts his eyebrows, and waits for Harry to copy his action. Harry complies and manicured fingers place the tablet between the auror's lips. Unable to repress a moan, Harry closes his eyes.

The flavors of vanilla and peppermint coat every curve in his mouth. His lips linger around the Slytherin's fingertips, and his tongue lightly caresses them leaving them slick.

Malfoy, transfixed on Harry's actions, freezes and gets caught in the auror's heated gaze. Clearing his throat, the blond breaks eye contact and takes a swift step back; a wash of warmth flowing down his body. He coughs and thrusts the tin into Harry's hands choking, "On the house." After finding his composure, Malfoy explains, "It's the newest formula; I've developed. It'll lower your blood alcohol level. Relieves hangover symptoms as well."

The Slytherin shoves his hand in a pocket. Harry, sobering up, twitches for his holstered wand.

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy snaps, "Really," and pulls out a parcel, wrapped in vellum, roughly the size of a deck of cards. "Here, take it."

"What is it?" asks Harry, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head.

"After the Battle of Hogwarts, I was named executor of Severus' will—"

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes, he wished for you to have this." Jerking the package in Harry's direction, "This is the last thing that ties me to memories of the war." His throat convulses. "I want to fully move on but can't until this final task is done. I swear; I won't ever ask another favor of you." Malfoy's lids shut. In an even tone, he implores, "Please."

Both men pause, one glimpsing a landscape of darkness and the other smooth supple hands; both uncertain of what will happen next. Their synchronized breathing the only sound that disturbs the peaceful calm.

Harry clasps his hands over Malfoy's and the box. Storm grey eyes shoot open and watch as Harry removes it from his grasp.

After a long exhale, a slight smile of relief forms above Malfoy's strong angular chin. His attention remains on Harry's face an additional instant before he begins to turn away.

Harry's voice whispers, "You're a better man than I. Truly." Malfoy halts midstep.

Dropping formality, Draco says, "Harry, you _do_ need help. You are not seeing the world as it really _is_."

The auror releases the last threads holding his glamour in place. "This is what I am—" stiff crunchy robes covered in dark dried blood shimmer into existence, "a murderer. You still have your conscience. You meet or exceed your family obligations."

Malfoy shakes his head in sadness and can't stop his emotions from dipping into pity. "Get help, Potter."

Once Harry feels his past rival's absence, the sparsely lit hall seems to dim even further.

Sighing, the auror glowers and looks around trying to get his bearings. He can't recall ever visiting this sector of the Ministry.

After taking a few steps down the corridor, searching for some clue as to where he is, a blinding beam of light rounds the corner. Harry quickly crouches, flattens himself beside a wall, and aims his wand towards the hall opening.

A gruff voice says, "At ease, Auror, Potter."

"Head Auror Robards?"

A grunt of acknowledgment precedes the ray fading to a glowing pin prick before vanishing. Flashing spots of echoed luminescence swim before Harry's vision.

"Auror Potter, what are you doing in the Vampire Division of the Non-Wizards Part-Humans Services Office?"

"Uh…" Harry couldn't recollect his reasoning, if there was any, as to why he was here either.

"No matter. Follow me."

Instead of asking where they would be going and seeming insubordinate, Harry requests, "Sir, would it be possible for me to clean up first?"

Squinting his eyes at Harry's appearance, Robards snorts. "Clean up ya say. Yes, you will, but we'll make a quick stop at my office." Leaving no room for refusal, he orders, "Come along."

Harry trails his superior through various halls, doors, and offices until at last, the glorious shining entrance of the lift opens in welcome. A polite disembodied female voice announces the floor as Level Four: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Since the last Ministry Restructuration, the many, _many_, sub-departments ceased being announced. That one decision alone probably produced the largest increase in efficiency to date.

Robards and Harry wait for passengers to disembark before walking into the cramped wood-paneled container.

The lift attendant, a scrawny teen with an overbite and an oversized bellboy cap, demands, "Level?"

"Two." Both aurors say simultaneously.

"Level Two," confirms the attendant. He cranks the lever twice; each grinding switch ending with a harsh ding."

With a jolt, Harry's body, including the back of his skull, slams against the wall. The Head Auror, gripping a hanging handhold above his head, raises an eyebrow at Harry's unpreparedness.

The lift switches directions, and Harry's stomach somersaults. If he cared about propriety, he would send a Thank You note to Malfoy and commend him on the effectiveness of his tablets. After consuming such a great quantity of liquor, Harry marvels that he's not spewing all over the compartment.

The two aurors travel in awkward silence until they arrive before Robards' office door.

21

The two-digit number, engraved on a brass plaque, indicates that they are indeed at the right location.

In the Ministry, name plates were rarely used. The rationale being, if a person needs to visit a certain room, either he or she would already know where it was, was invited and given directions, or would be capable of performing a spell that would guide the way. Not to mention, regardless of promotion, demotion—or death—the signs would never have to be changed.

Robards orbits an oak desk that resembles its owner. Stout, unbudging, and a little worse for wear. Flopping into a hard-backed chair, he motions for Harry to take the seat opposite him.

The Head Auror clears his throat and steeples his chunky fingers. He fixes his gaze on Harry and takes a drawn-out breath.

Harry starts to feel the trickle of adrenaline flow through his veins. The last time this scenario took place…words were said.

Regarding his supervisor amid two large towering piles of folders, Harry watches as he briskly opens a lone file. Robards picks up a small stack of pictures and tosses them in Harry's direction.

The photos slip to a skewed stop. Harry slants his head, and the blurry image of the wizard he chased earlier, jumping from the roof top, punches his gut and turns it sour.

"Auror Potter, you know our main objective is to vigilantly limit exposure. You had ample opportunity to disarm him. You understood the protocol. Locate the suspect. Contact headquarters. Not run off by yourself. Because of you an innocent muggle woman is dead!

"If the correct responders had been present, the leader might have been apprehended."

Harry's nostrils flare. "If I hadn't followed, all those children would be lost, and you would have nothing!"

Ignoring Harry's outburst, he continued, "You've always been reckless. And that's why we _agreed_, when Ron chose to leave, not to assign you a replacement partner. We knew there was no one else, who had a chance in hell, of successfully reining in your behavior."

The Head Auror shakes his head. "But after reviewing your latest Memory Report…

"It's assumed that an occasional dark spell will be used in the line of duty, but even you have to admit that your use of dark magic during this last mission was excessive. You performed a Blasting _Curse _when you could have easily utilized Bombarda.

"Harry. We've…I've been concerned about your destructiveness for some time. And today discovering you have been drinking while on the job—"

"My assignment was over—"

"Do not interrupt me auror! It has been decided that you _will_ receive proper treatment. Potions Mistress Granger has been informed, and she'll see you posthaste. If you do not find a way to control your demons, I'm sorry to say you will be let go.

"You're fortunate you're not rotting to Azkaban," Robards growls. "Anyone else would be for using an Unforgivable in peacetime. But because of who you are and what you did, we're giving you the benefit of the doubt.

"It's time you got yourself _cleaned up_. You are officially off the case and on reduced magical credit leave. Dismissed, auror." Reduced magical credits. Ginny's gonna _love_ that.

Trying to hide his building anger, Harry bows his head and grits, "Yes, sir."

What does the stupid whale know? Nothing. Just has his fat tail stuck up his arse. They wouldn't have found an iota if he hadn't pursued the dark wizard. He has the highest rate for solved cases…and enemy casualties his mind whispers, which he ignores. Bloody politics. He follows his instincts and gets results. Maybe Ron was right. The bureaucracy of the place chokes the life out of you.

Harry stomps out of his supervisor's office, passes a hive of cubicles, and walks down a lengthy sloping hall. When he reaches an archway carved into cascading fountains, he comes to a stop. Perpendicular to the bubbling water, a magical portraiture of Hesphaestus Gore, one of the earliest Aurors who also became Minister, screws his left eye at Harry and rubs his protruding belly.

"Password," wheezes, the ancient wizard.

"Jumping jack."

The man nods his head in assent, and the painting swings wide with a creak, revealing a long low vaulted room.

The chamber, covered in dark wooden cubbies that wrap up and around the curved ceiling, smells musty and wet from the adjoining showers. Dividing the space in half, a bench topped with a grey Purbeck marble seat spans the length of the room.

Harry approaches the corner that houses his locker labeled with the number seven. Lucky number seven. Not so lucky right now.

The auror raise his arms and appraises his soiled gear. His robes are acid-proof, fire-proof, so many proofs he can't pronounce a couple of them, but not blood-proof. For some mystical reason, auror-issued garments eat blood like starving leeches. Can't use cleaning charms because they unbalance the protective properties of the material. A few rookies, who didn't read the section of garment care in their handbooks, have yet to be recovered.

Harry removes all the objects from his clothing and sets them on a shelf. Then he undresses, crushes the crackly fabric into a big ball, and throws it into his locker. Next, the auror checks his leg holster; the handle of his wand is still firmly an inch above his right ankle. Due to an enchantment, the holly rod will release only when needed.

He proceeds to put on a t-shirt which displays the Hogwart's coat of arms, mesh shorts, and trainers.

Jogging to double iron-doors, Harry smiles in anticipation of visiting one of the few places that provides him solace. The substantial metal panels open of their own accord, and the vast space of the gymnasium for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement begins to soothe his heavy heart.

Fondly called the Coliseum by its patrons, the oval room stands ten floors high. Lush plant and wildlife live amongst the walls and balconies. A running track and daunting obstacle course among dense woods, similar to the Dark Forest, occupies the middle.

Laughter and cheers float down from above as a group celebrates the winner of a recent broom race. The conjured sky glows with sunset hues of orange, blue, and purple.

Harry runs in place to warm-up before he shoots down the pathway. He thinks about what Head Auror Robards implied. Bollocks. He's not a drunk. Nothing's wrong with drinking for a minor escape. Shaking his head, he focuses on the randomly shifting trail before him.

As he races along, the path is at first made of loose dirt, morphs into thick soft grass, and then without warning he's sprinting down a hill of hot sand. Spelled cool mist and a gentle breeze brushes his skin and soothes his overheated body.

After sweating out any remnants of alcohol that may still have been in him, Harry breathing hard, staggers near the locker room entrance. While he balances himself against the wall and stretches out his quadriceps, he peruses the announcement board which resembles a kaleidoscopic patchwork quilt. Drawing in a deep relaxed lungful, the auror wipes his forehead and reenters the changing room.

Harry takes a quick cold shower and redresses in jeans, a cobalt v-neck jumper, leather jacket, and tennis shoes. From his locker, he stores his new tablets and other personal items in his pockets until the last remaining item on the shelf is Snapes' bequeathment. He clutches both hands around the plainly bound box and sits on the solid stone bench. Trembling, Harry removes the outer layer of parchment and lifts the lid.

A small gold key rests on black velvet. Harry examines the contents of the box, but not a thing informs him of what he should do next.

The auror frowns in consternation then flips over the crumpled wrapper. Thin faded script marks its surface.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Safety Deposit Box 191960

Harry pitches the empty box back in his locker, neatly folds the sheet of vellum, and puts both the key and cream paper square in his pants pocket.

The exiled auror departs from the tenebrous room and blinks as his eyes adjust to the hallway light emanating from a nearby torch. Standing immobile, Harry contemplates his next choice. He could go right and visit Hermione's office as demanded by Robards _or_ he could go left, take the lift down to the Atrium, and leave to visit Gringotts.

He _doesn't_ have a problem; Hermione can wait.

He turns left. The portrait behind Harry harrumphs.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Black. Beady. Eyes.

The glares and gazes from dozens of goblins focus on Harry as his steps echo within the domed hall. Many of the pasty faces blaze with resentment while others glint with remembered satisfaction of being promoted due to Harry's contribution in eliminating the competition.

All the damage inflicted while fleeing on the back of a dragon after the trio's break-in has been repaired. All the bodies removed. All the surfaces scoured of blood.

The chamber once again looks as it did when, as a child, Harry first visited Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Before he knew that fate sentenced his soul to harbor the weight of so many lost lives. Before he ever even conceived of killing another human being.

Meager rays from the setting sun filter through the grime covered windows perched about the room. The cold marble motif, possessing the same greed as its caretakers, absorbs the light making the room somber.

Harry focuses on the head bank teller at the end of the aisle. The click of gold coins, being counted on either side of his progression, sound like impatient fingernails tapping.

Long pointed-nose in a ledger, the shrewd-eyed head goblin takes his time to meet Harry's green beryl frown.

"Name?" the monotoned apathetic goblin asks.

Craning his neck to see the creature lording over him from the tall podium, the auror answers, "Harry Potter."

A slight pause. "Business?"

"I have a key to a deposit box…"

Harry starts to reach into his pocket when the goblin again sinks back over his work, dips a quill in ink, and then clearly enunciates, "Counter Fourteen."

After turning around and finding a long queue of disgruntled wizards and witches waiting behind the specified counter, The Chosen One gapes at the pointy eared muppet. Huffing in indignation, Harry prepares himself for a lengthy wait and strides to the end of the line.

Slowly the wall of bodies in front of Harry dwindles until it's his turn to approach the dark-stained counter. He continues to ignore the obnoxious wizard behind him that has been complaining about _everything _in a now painfully irritating voice. If he has to listen to one more nasally complaint about the plight of blood status, Minister Shacklebolt's ineffectiveness, or disgusting creatures such as goblins, he just might need to purchase a one-way ticket to Azkaban because he's contemplating flashing the fool some green, and he's not thinking muggle currency.

Trying to get his mind off of the thought of homicide, Harry studies a gilded lamppost helmeted with a bulbous glass shade; its base engraved with a XIV.

Darkness now stalks Harry and the disconsolate queuers behind him through the many paned-windows. Worried, the auror checks the time with a wandless spell. Fifteen-til-seven. He still has time.

As Harry stretches, trying to loosen his stiff muscles, a frazzled young goblin rushes to meet him and in a high-pitched voice requests, "Sir, do you have your key?"

Harry evaluates the goblin's face. Garish pigmentation coats cheeks and lips and instead of typical drab business attire, the diminutive figure wears a sunflower-hued frock.

Either goblins are very accepting of cross-dressing or this is the first female goblin Harry has ever seen.

"Umm." Harry mumbles, continuing to gawk.

"Sorry for the wait." She says putting extra emphasis on the last consonant of her sentence. "But my supervisor thought it fit that I undertake _all_ duties including deposit and retrieval myself." She wipes her damp brow with her arm. "Your key Mr…"

"Mr. Potter."

The goblin's eyes grow, examining Harry's face. "Oh!" A big grin appears on her face. "Harry James Potter?"

Harry nods his head, and a wary but amused expression crosses his face. He uses his fingers like pincers to remove the key and folded piece of parchment from his pocket and hands them to…

"I'm sorry; what's your name?" Harry asks.

Her eyes widen then flutter. Placing her hand daintily over chest, she answers, "My name is—"

The wizard waiting behind Harry loudly clears his throat. Harry turns around and stares at the snooty man until the wizard's face pales, and he becomes fascinated with his own shiny shoes.

"I apologize for this man's rude behavior. Your name Ms…?"

"Kluga," she smiles crookedly. Resuming her professional demeanor, she straightens her posture and squares her shoulders. "Follow me."

Harry catches up with Kluga and keeps pace beside her. Regarding the top of her white wispy bouffant that towers over her head and ends a few inches below his hip, he inquiries, "I've never seen a goblin such as yourself before."

Hacking like a rascally cat, she looks at Harry from the corner of her eye and says, "That's probably because for many centuries, until a short time ago, a female of my species has not been allowed outside The Warren."

"What changed it?"

"You."

"Me," Harry exclaims in disbelief, "but I've rarely had dealings with goblins."

Kluga's eyes shift taking in their surroundings, shushes him, and then explains, "A majority of positions in Goblin society are patriarchally inherited and resources go toward educating sons. Unlike most goblins, my father thought I should learn the basics such as reading Gobbledegook. From those lessons, I taught myself other languages and subjects.

"Father died during your escape—"

Harry gasps. "I'm sooo sorry."

Her eyes shimmer, and lips twitch in appreciation of his apology. Dabbing the corner of her eye with a long bony finger, she smiles weakly. "No worries. None at all, Mr. Potter. I understand why it had to happen." She clears her throat and continues, "Father died before producing a male heir, and as the eldest child, his responsibilities would fall to me. It was assumed that the open spot would go to the next goblin on the Vocational General Waiting Registry since I didn't have the required skills."

With a crafty smirk, she says, "But I did."

Harry interjects, "But the burglary happened years ago, and it seems like you only just acquired the position."

In a more subdued tone, Kluga responds, "There was a never-ending litany of hearings. Cases of Contention. Tests of my aptitude. Tests of my mental state," she sighs. "If it weren't for Ms. Granger—"

"Hermione Granger?"

"Yes. If it weren't for her lobbying for me during the most recent Interspecies Assembly, the goblin leadership might not have conceded in my favor."

A twinge of guilt stabs Harry when he thinks of bailing on Hermione. She tends to unnecessarily worry.

The odd duo approach a long, dank spiraling staircase with a sneering goblin guard flanking each side. "Watch your step," Kluga warns; her words reverberating down the winding steps.

At the bottom of the stairwell, they approach a thick bronze-hammered door. Deep random gouges mar its polished surface, looking like a clawed beast had used it as a scratching post.

Strangled coarse speech crawls out of Kluga's throat, and the haphazard marks on the entryway begin to flicker like air blowing on dying embers. The entrance grows brighter and brighter with every word she speaks until it seems as though the molten metal door will melt onto the dusty floor. Eyes watering, Harry raises an arm to block the intensity. A series of muffled clicks from all sides of the rectangular frame cause Harry to jump. With a whoosh of cool air, the door pops open an inch.

Harry notices that Kluga's light-sensitive eyes squeeze shut in pain. Reopening her dark wet pools, she pulls the round ring handle to the once again dull door.

The entire room, hewn from black stone, glitters with veins of goblin silver and gold. Glowing orbs that look like dandelion tufts float above their heads and dance in an endless shift of menacing formations. Innumerable keyholes puncture the rolling uneven walls of the cavern and ascend up into a shadowed vastness.

Kluga guides Harry to a center circular floor medallion made of ivory marble. A bare gold table, with more scratches or in actuality, indecipherable Gobbledegook, juts like a sword hilt from the middle of the tiled circle.

"Mr. Potter, stay within the white border. I'll return in two shakes of a unicorn's tail."

Harry takes a step to see where the she-goblin was heading when the hovering lights above turn a warning red. The auror quickly repositions his foot to its original spot and the whizzing spheres dim and hum in satisfaction.

Kluga comes back with a thimble-sized black cube. She carefully sets it on the precious metal surface like a sacrificial offering.

A second later, the tiny container begins to expand in size until it's about as long as Harry's forearm and as deep and tall as his palm.

The she-goblin hands him his key, crumpled wrapper, and something else—another letter. Harry groans.

Gesturing to the coal-black box, Kluga says, "You can take all or none of the items deposited. Once you've decided, relock the security box and be sure to retrieve your belongings, including your key."

Scrunching his brow, the auror asks, "Don't you need to prove my identity or something before giving me all this?"

Kluga commences reciting a well-rehearsed answer. "Protecting your best interest is very important to Gringotts, and we strive to maintain plausible deniability. When accessing your vault, we will respect your privacy. Our record of security is unparalleled. If you are worried about the safety of any item off our premises; we sell excellent home safes for your convenience. Would you like to see our deluxe model?"

With a forced smile, Harry responds, "Uh, thanks, but no thank you."

With a quick nod, the she-goblin says, "When you're done, say, '_absolutus_,' and the exit will appear."

Heartbeat beginning to accelerate when thinking of what he might find, he asks, "Can I contact you if I have any further questions?"

After a whistle of wind and a small spark, a peach-colored business card appears between her clutched thumb and index finger. "Here," she grins and hands it to him.

Harry reads the sharp-cornered firm piece of paper with gold embossed type:

Kluga, Teller of Claustellum Cavern  
Owl or Floo  
Work: Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Counter Fourteen  
Home: Burrow under Teutates Falls

A genuine broad smile creeps on to her face, "Isn't it brilliant. I received them, yesterday. Well, I must be on my way."

Before she takes a step to leave, Harry says, "Wait a second." He pulls out a pair of muggle sunglasses from his jacket. "For you."

She tilts her head. "What is it?"

"Spectacles that block bright light. Wear them the next time you open the vault door."

"Oh, a sun cheater!" She excitedly hops once and grabs the plastic frames and tinted lenses. "I have read of it."

Kluga enfolds her hands around Harry's offering and places them over her heart. She gives a solemn bow and thanks him before running out of the room; the door bolting behind her.

Harry berates to himself, "I'm an accessory to her father's death and gave her five pound shades," then shakes his head in disgust.

The key clinks on the tabletop in front of its lock. The folded bit of vellum once again resides in the auror's pocket.

Harry's wrists consecutively twist; fingers switching ownership of the unopened document. An official Gringotts seal flashes with each rotation, teasing his curiosity.

Postponing the inevitable no longer, Harry rips open the closure. A hiss of sparkles flies into his face, causing him to sneeze. Sniffing, he unfolds the crisp stationary.

Dear Mr. Harry James Potter:

I am obliged to inform you that the will of Severus Prince Snape bequeaths you the following:  
One (1) Chest, warded  
One (1) Wand, birch, eleven (11) inches, llamia hair, sturdy yet flexible, previously owned by deceased  
One (1) Revoco Sphere, warded to Harry James Potter

Regards,  
Prosonk

Head Solicitor, Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Huh. Wasn't expecting that. Venomous snakes. Maybe. A knut. Sure. Perhaps an illicit potion. Unequivocally. But not Snape's wand.

Harry inserts the goblin-crafted key into the lock. With a snap, the coffer gradually gapes its jaw like a big yawn after a long sleep.

A smooth decorative chest constructed of a deep-brown-stained birch, inlaid with pale willow, reflects the darting luminescence overhead. The light wood and dark negative space create lilies that coil from the lid and onto the main body of the container.

Harry gently lifts the memento and follows the winding design with the soft pad of his index finger, admiring the craftsmanship and thinking. Thinking.

Revoco Sphere. Revoco Sphere. Hmm. Harry recalls hearing the words in passing while heading to the Time Chamber of the Department of Mysteries to visit the Unspeakable, Professor Saul Croaker. The auror had been in need of a time-turner for intensive workouts and obstacle course training.

Since the core research conducted by the Department of Mysteries involves love, space, thought, time, or death, the puzzling object he inherited must somehow relate to one of those themes.

Unlike what Head Auror Robards believed, Harry did consider the consequence of his actions. He had learnt from his mistake during the war and now could make split-second life-or-death decisions.

Taking into consideration what choice would benefit the most, the auror did what had to be done, regardless if another red smear of blood stained his soul.

Before opening the chest, Harry decides to find out more about the mysterious sphere. Harry obeys Kluga's orders and after placing a shrinking charm on his new possessions and pocketing them, utters the spell to reveal the exit.

Crossing the threshold, a force pushes Harry out into the hubbub of Diagon Alley. The auror leaps back, avoiding being plowed by a gaggle of gossiping witches. His leather jacket squeaks against a white marble wall huddled between two Corinthian columns.

Through the throng lit by moonlight and street lamps, he sees the Stygian maw of Knockturn Alley straight ahead. Harry turns away from the ominous street and jogs further up Diagon.

Yowls, hoots, and croaks chatter as he passes the Magical Menagerie. The storefront to the wand shop, Ollivander's, emits no light or movement. An almost illegible note, attached to the pulled-down blind on the entrance, announces that the business is closed and where the owner Garrick Ollivander can be found if there is a dire wand emergency.

As Harry's footsteps come to a halt on the cobblestone street, the giant mischievously grinned mechanized puppet sitting over the entryway of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes greets him.

A candy red door swings open, and two wizards with short, silver hair, heads together in a heated debate, exit the periwinkle-blue building. Jimmy Kiddell, wandmaker, with a squinty-eyed scowl and Gaspard Shingleton, creator of the Self-Stirring Cauldron, with jovial green eyes, break apart and flow on either side of Harry, then immediately continue their discussion.

Harry's eyebrows arch as he watches the curmudgeon Kiddell wrap his arm snuggly around Shingleton's waist.

Floating to the left of the door, a banner undulates. Trumpets blare after Harry walks and stands before it. The voice of Founder and Co-manager George Weasley informs him that the monthly gathering of the Bits and Bobs Inventors Guild is in session.

After walking into the store, the banging of random fireworks, the low murmurs of conversation, and the stampeding of shoes as customers climb and descend various stairways swaddle around Harry in familiarity.

The auror recognizes his former partner, Ron Weasley, now also a Co-Manager of the joke shop, restocking a display of Prionsa's Breath Remedies.

"Ai, Ron." Harry yells to get his attention.

"What?" the redhead looks to-and-fro then glances over his shoulder and catches sight of his old schoolmate. "Harry? Blimey! Wasn't expecting to see you till Sunday dinner."

The two embrace in a quick hug with two pats on each other's back.

"New shipment?" Harry inquires.

Ron nods and his cheek quirks. "I hate that we have to carry 'em, but they are the best mints on the market. Especially, the bloody pumpkin juice ones. Merlin, I swear Malfoy puts something in them to make 'em so blooming addictive."

After departing the Ministry, it was soon discovered that Ron had a killer business sense. From his guidance, Weasley's' Wizard Wheezes annual earnings quadrupled.

"Needing something, Harry? Unless it's personal care. 'Cause you being married to my sis', there're some things I just never wish to know."

Harry face cracks a smile. "Actually, I was hoping to get your brother's expertise on something I inherited."

"Inherited? From who."

"Uh. Snape if you can believe it."

Ron's face loses all expression. "Snape?" He screeches.

Rubbing his crown with his hand, Harry drawls, "Yeah."

"Well, what did you get? Wait. I might not want to know."

Shaking his head at Ron's reaction, Harry says, "He gave me a Revoco Sphere and his wand."

A mop of disheveled white hair materializes between the conferring friends and a soft raspy voice says, "Wand? Did you say Mr. Potter"

The two men leap in surprise.

"Crikey Mr. Ollivander! You shouldn't go sneaking up on people," Ron wheezes.

The wandmaker's googly pale, silver eyes widen and his thin lips say, "Mr. Weasley, how do you expect me to obtain the ingredients for my craft if I go stomping about."

Harry smiles. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. How's your son doing?"

"Good. Good. It is strange though."

"What's strange, sir?" Harry asks.

"Strange that you should inherit a wand. Most wands are buried or cremated with their prior owners. Do you have it with you?"

"Uh. Yeah but it's in a warded chest, and I wanted to learn more about the contents before opening it."

"Of course. Of course. May I ask who the wand belonged to?"

"Severus Snape."

Ollivander nods his head in thought. "Ah, I see. Mr. Snape purchased his wand the same day as you mother. Did you know?"

"I can't say that I did, sir."

"A very particular match they were."

"Match?"

"Yes. Mr. Snape's wand was made out of birch, measured eleven inches, and was sturdy yet flexible. Your mother's wand was made out of willow, measured ten-and-three-quarters, and was quite swishy. But what they had in common were their cores. Both of their wands contained a strand of llamia hair one each from a pair of fraternal twins. Much like you and He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named, they possessed, rather literally, sibling wands."

Sighing in fond remembrance, the old wizard continues, "The creatures were most beautiful. One had the upper-body of a stunning maiden and the lower-body of a snake. Her dancing and swaying figure was hypnotic and lovely. Her brother was a warrior through-and-through; the bottom-half of his body was that of a lion.

"After striking up a conversation, they felt honored to donate, and each gave me a single blond strand. The woman's hair resembled patinaed copper while her twin's mane was a rich gold. During my many journeys, I have yet to again find beings of such grace.

"It is fortunate that such a unique wand has not been lost. I trust you will take good care of it, Mr. Potter"

"Of course, sir." Harry replies with humble respect. Trying to move along the discussion, Harry says, "I'm guessing, since you're up here, that the meeting's over."

"You are correct, young man. I must be returning to my shop." With a sharp dip of his head, Ollivander says, "Good evening to you both."

"Good evening, Mr. Ollivander." Harry shakes the eccentric wizard's hand.

Opening a tin of mints and tossing a few onto his tongue, Ron wishes the wandmaker safe travels until the next guild get-together; the smell of pumpkin and hints of nutmeg and cinnamon permeate the air.

Swallowing the fragrant crush of orange gravel, Ron suggests, "Well, let's give George a holler then."

Harry drags his feet behind Ron. Since the war, it has been difficult for Harry to visit George. The death of George's twin Fred always seems to invade their every interaction. Both know what it means to come up short. Not being able to protect those who would do the same for you. To make a mistake that has such life altering results. Losing a loved one so suddenly, the lost potential—the what ifs—being the harshest pain to endure.

The whole family became worried about George when he suffered near death injuries, after a questionable accident three years ago. It was agreed that Ron should turn in his auror robes and start helping, more like keeping an eye on, his elder brother in the store.

The friends stroll behind the counter that housed the register, and Ron taps a small hanging mirror three times with his wand. George's face spirals into existence. Like a funhouse mirror, his cheeks are pushed together and his forehead bulges. An oddly assembled device made out of brass clings to his head. On a headband, a funnel like contraption protrudes from where his left ear used to be; the organ severed and lost during the war. Over the right-side of his face, a magnifying lens grotesquely enlarges his chestnut brown eye.

"Ahhh, Harry! Good of you to visit. I just began something in the lab. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. How's the new addition?"

"Good. Angie's over-the-moon that Roxi slept through the night. How's the holster fairing? Need any adjustments?"

"No, it's been working great! Thanks again! Definitely my favorite birthday gift this year." After the war, George started tinkering in weapon fabrication. It turned into the successful side-business Weasley's Wizarding Weapons.

Green sparks flash and reflect off the red-heads fair skin, and smoke obstructs George's image. "Uhh. I don't think you should come back here at the moment."

"Maybe you can help me from there. Do you know what a Revoco Sphere is?"

"Sure. A Revoco Sphere has similar mechanics and spells as a Remembrall and pensieve. It can copy, store, and provide access to memories, wherever. There's been an ongoing lawsuit as to who owns the rights so the spheres are very hard to come by.

"Why do you ask, Harry?"

"I was given one." Brows furrowing, the auror inquires, "What does it mean if it's warded?"

"If it's specifically warded to you, all you have to do is hold it in your dominate hand and state your full name."

"So it won't suck out all my memories, leaving me a vegetable."

Snickering, George says, "No, nothing like that."

Harry nods in satisfaction. "Alright, then. Thanks George."

The Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall, chimes and a brood of fairies zoom and dance over the room singing that it's eight o'clock.

"Shite!" Harry yells. "I didn't realize the time."

"You wanna floo home from here," Ron asks.

"Nope. Can't. Ginny's not home yet, and I activated the exterior wards before I left." Rushing towards the exit, Harry shouts, "I should see you both at dinner tomorrow, if not, say hello to Mum and Dad for me."

"Will do, Mate." Ron waves goodbye.

"See you Harry." George's skewed picture flickers and the mirror blanks.

Harry yanks open the front door and as soon as he is no longer restricted by anti-apparating wards, with a loud clap, disappears to Godric's Hollow.

Quickly unlocking the door to his home, Harry sprints down the hallway to the small library and tosses glittery power into the fireplace. The rush of green flames gusts against his face.

"Hi Uncle Hare!" A five-year-old boy in flying broom pajamas happily exclaims.

"Sorry, I'm a little late. You ready Teddy?"

"Uh huh." His godson confirms, placing a small hand over his mouth to cover a large yawn. The little boy curls up in front of the fire and hugs a huge pillow.

Ever since the war ended, Teddy Lupin had awful nightmares, particularly on the day both his parents Remus, a werewolf, and Nymphadora, a metamorphmagus, died; their life strings cut short during the final battle, on a fateful Saturday.

When Teddy was an inconsolable baby, only Harry could rock his godson to sleep. As Teddy grew older, Harry called every Saturday to keep the worst of the little boy's nightmares at bay.

Harry picks up his godson's favorite book "Guess How Much I Love You" by Sam McBratney, resting on the stone mantle. He sits down on a worn Persian rug with a few char marks next to a rosy marble hearth and begins, "Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed…"

The thrum of Harry's voice calms the little boy, and before reaching the story's conclusion, Teddy's face smiles from a pleasant dream. Harry kneels down into the floo call and checks on his godson. The little boy's face is relaxed and so innocent that it hurts.

Harry rapidly blinks his eyes, fighting his emotions. Love. Guilt. Fear.

He strokes the boy's cheek and voice cracking whispers the last line of the story from memory. "I love you right up to the moon—and back."

After quietly extinguishing the connection, Harry climbs upstairs. He plops on his side of the mattress and rightens the glass tipped over on his nightstand.

"_Accio_ _firewhisky_." A bottle from deep in his closet flies into his outstretched hand. Harry pours the amber liquid into the clear tumbler, relaxes on his bed, and takes a deep sip. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on the bitter burn as it flows down his throat and tries to forget his many mistakes.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"…Sweetheart," a kind, soft voice whispers.

Bars block his view. Yelling.

So scary.

"Harry!"

"Mum, I'll protect you!" Blast of bright green.

A shrill shriek.

"Harry," cries a woman.

Cracking his crusted eyes open, Harry groans. His mouth feels dry and jaw stiff. Groping around on his nightstand, his hand bumps a hard object; shattering glass startles him into wakefulness.

A voice calls his name.

"Gin?" Harry answers gravelly. He grasps his wand, and the dark room fills with a faint glow.

Harry turns to glance at his wife lying next to him. Dark-red stains her nightgown, over the entirety of her chest, thickest between her breasts. Blood dribbles from her nose and mouth.

"By Merlin! Ginny!" Harry flings the saturated sheets off her, draws his wife into his arms, and leaps to his feet, experiencing no pain as glass cuts into his vulnerable skin.

"Ginny, Ginny," Harry sobs. "I'm so sorry." What-have-I-done repeats in Harry's mind over and over and over again.

Ginny's scarlet hair hangs limply like the rest of her unresponsive body cradled in his arms. Her bone-white skin only slightly contrasts with her pale blue lips. Light hitting her lashes creates long shadows on her cheeks that look like hungry denizens awaiting to steal her soul away.

Harry carries his wife down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the book strewn library. He dips his shaking hand into an enameled bowl that sits on the mantel and grabs a pile of glistening dust. The glass container tips over, spraying out its contents, and hits the rug; a new hairline crack now visible on its once unblemished side.

Being sure not to jar his wife with his movements, he enters the fireplace, yells, "St. Mungo's Hospital," and throws the handful of floo powder next to his bare foot bleeding over caked soot.

The key to travelling by floo is not thinking that your body is only standing upon the floor, but thinking that your body is anchored to the Earth's core. With that thought in mind, Harry arrives in the bustling Emergency Ward of the Spell Damage Unit without stumbling and harming Ginny further.

The strong acrid smell of salves and opened potion bottles prickle the inside of Harry's nose. Stark light-blue walls, beige privacy curtains, and intense conjured overhead illumination backdrop the constant motion of Healers tending to patients.

A witch in a uniform of fitted-lime-green robes approaches Harry. "Sir, what happened?" She brusquely asks as she levitates Ginny to an empty bed. A team of Healers immediately surround and begin to evaluate his unconscious wife.

"Accidental Magic," Harry replies in a deadened tone.

"By a child?"

"By me."

The woman's eyes narrow. "And your name, sir?"

"Harry Potter."

The woman gasps and stutters, "A-Auror Potter?"

Harry nods and clears his face of his long disheveled hair. He moves trying to get a better view of Ginny and winces from the burning puncture wounds on the bottom of his feet.

The Healer frowns, noticing Harry's bloody footprints, and points towards the comatose woman. "And that's…"

Harry's lips tremble and in a soft vehement voice, he answers, "My wife…" With growing volume, he cries, "Ginny. Oh, Merlin."

"Auror Potter." Louder, she again says, "Auror Potter," breaking Harry's rising panic. "How long ago was your wife injured?"

"Only a few minutes ago. I-I was having a nightmare and when I woke up, she was…"

One of the Healers by Ginny's side begins shouting orders.

"What's happening! What's happening to her?" Harry yells and strides towards the group of wizards and witches who were rapidly casting spells and uncorking numerous bottles.

A Healer aims her wand at the curtain near the head of Ginny's bed, and it swings around activating wards that prevent Harry's advancement and blocks any sound from escaping.

The witch, who had been questioning him, lightly sets her hand on Harry's arm. "I'm sorry Auror Potter, but I'm going to have to ask you to follow me." She guides him into a wheelchair that had rolled to them by itself. While the Healer escorts him to a bed on the far, opposite side of the room, she says, "Your wife's in excellent hands. We don't want to hinder her care by interrupting."

With the witch's assistance, Harry climbs onto crisp cotton sheets and lies down. Without watching him, she performs a wordless _Tergeo_, and his clothes that had been soaked with Ginny's blood are once again spotless and dry.

The Healer examines his feet and removes any obvious pieces of glass and places them into a ceramic kidney dish. Next she takes out a coral-pink potion from her medi-satchel and sets it in Harry's hand. His palm remains opened-flat, and the glass container rocks with his shuddering. He stares at the woman, glances at the unknown concoction, and looks at her once more.

"A Calming Draught, Auror Potter." She answers his unspoken question.

While Harry gulps the prescribed brew, he watches as she unlocks a cupboard with a swish of her wand and pulls out a small tan crock of healing unguent. The sour odor of rotten lemons and earthy herbs grows stronger when she starts salving the ointment onto his feet. His pain gradually changes from sharp torrents to dull aches.

The Healer smiles and says, "Here. Let me take this for you." The Auror feels a yank and glances down. Still clutched in his right hand is his forgotten wand. Knuckles white, his fist painfully releases its stiff grip around the wooden rod.

She deposits his wand on a retracted, stainless-steel tray. The wood cylinder rolls across the shiny angled surface, creating a sound like quiet thunder; the lip of the metal sheet stopping it from toppling over the edge.

"You'll need to remain off your feet for a few hours so any embedded shards can work their way out. In the meantime, rest. As soon as more is known about your wife's condition, you'll be informed.

"If you need anything, just press green." She points at the rectangular box, topped with various unmarked buttons, bobbing weightlessly above his bed rail. "And I'm Healer Thornflos by the way."

"Thank you, Healer Thornflos," slurs Harry. "I'm..feeling…so tired." His eyelids shut.

"The potion you took will also help you sleep."

"No. No!" Straining to keep his eyes open, he says, "What if she…" But the potion is too potent, and Harry descends into darkness.

* * *

As Harry dozes, flashes of sensation taunt him. Sweetness coating his tongue. Hot slick skin. Moans of pleasure. Ginny's name echoes in his mind and the emotion of great loss weighs his soul.

Harry tosses and turns, mumbling her name.

"Auror Potter." A hand grasps Harry's shoulder and jostles him. "Auror Potter. I have news about your wife."

Harry's unfocused eyes discern a shadowed profile backlit by bright white light. "Ginny," he whispers in fear and reaches out a hand, thinking, "Is she gone? Has she come to say goodbye?"

The figure straightens and gruffly clears his throat. "Mrs. Potter was stabilized and is fine—"

Relief fills Harry. He has to see her. He has to see her _now_ with his own eyes. Harry makes to get off the bed, but the Healer pushes down on his chest and urges him back down.

The old wizard continues, "But she's still in a bit of shock from the loss."

"Loss?" Oh, no! What if she won't ever be able to play Quidditch again? She would never forgive him. The prickle of tears begins to sting Harry's eyes.

The Healer takes a deep breath. "Due to the severe trauma your wife sustained, the baby couldn't be saved."

"Baby?" Harry's eyes widen from the blow; all breath leaving his lungs. Two salty drops descend down his cheeks. "But…that's impossible."

"Mrs. Potter explained that you were taking Sterility Potions and thought it might be hard for you to accept, so at her insistence, tests were done. Unfortunately, it looks as if a potion failed. It's rare but bad batches sometimes slip through.

"Your wife was about three months along, and the baby _was_ yours." The Healer's gnarly hand pats Harry's shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Auror Potter. She's conscious. You can visit her whenever you're ready. Again, my sympathies."

As the Healer departs, Harry watches a young Auror stomp towards him. He doesn't recognize the man. Must be a newer recruit.

The wizard's shaggy auburn hair virtually obscures his piercing blue eyes. His clunky boots squeak as he crosses the scuffed field of floor tiles.

Glaring at Harry, the Auror strangles the cold bed rail with each of his sweaty hands. The young man shakes his head in disgust. "I just can't believe it. I can't believe I looked up to you. Who'da thunk you're nuthin' but an abusive bastard.

Harry turns away from the man's contempt; his own guilt overwhelming him. He hadn't hurt Ginny in the way the Auror thought—but he had hurt her.

"You're wand came back clean, but that's not unexpected. Wouldn't be so hard for one such as yourself. She refuses to press charges. Not surprising—just bloody sad." The young man's jaw pulses. Freeing his grip from the metal beam, now warm and damp from his touch, the Auror grits, "You're free to leave the premises."

A restrictive ward, which Harry hadn't detected until it began to unravel, loosens its hold and releases.

The Auror tosses an object onto Harry's stomach; it bounces off, landing in the crack between his back and the sheets. "Your wand," the wizard sneers and then marches away with his russet robes swirling behind him.

Harry sighs and rubs his stubbled face with his palms. He rakes his fingers through his hair, jerking past knots, not caring when strands snap. As he checks the status of his feet by wiggling his toes, he notices a black bundle at the foot of his bed. After a quick inspection, Harry realizes that it's his leather jacket.

Also near him sit his boots, which lean against the bed frame on the floor, and a neatly folded pile of clothes, which rest on the cupboard counter. He tilts his head in thought. The house was locked; Kreacher must have brought them over.

Harry holsters his wand, manually closes his privacy curtain, and changes.

His house-elf's sense of fashion must have frozen in the seventies. The button-down shirt provided for him consists of panels of orange, red, and white. The pants are drab corduroy, and of course, the outfit wouldn't be complete without a pair of blindingly white Y-fronts. All items were previous gifts that Harry felt too guilty to get rid of so he had hidden them in the deepest recesses of his closet. At least, he was out of the clothes he had passed out in. Out of the clothes that had been covered in Ginny's blood.

After thoroughly checking all pockets, Harry feels no remorse as he throws his wrinkled former attire into the trash.

Concentrating on drawing measured even breaths, Harry walks down the lengthy ward of hospital beds. As he gets closer to Ginny's location, he spots an individual, facing away from him. The familiar balding man, tall and thin, sports a hand-knitted-carrot-hued jumper.

Harry presses his lips together and fights back tears. "Dad," he calls.

Arthur Weasley's blood-shot eyes, framed by thick-rimmed glasses, focus on Harry.

Uncertain what to do, Harry doesn't move another step until Mr. Weasley lifts and opens his arms.

Harry sinks into the embrace, burying his face into his father-in-law's shoulder; body quaking as he silently weeps.

Once Harry's tears had ebbed, Mr. Weasley pulls away, clasps the upper portion of Harry's arms, giving a firm squeeze, and says, "Hope you don't mind; Molly was able to bypass your wards because of the prior blood protections that her ancestors placed on the house. We were able to pick out a few things from your closet and pack for Ginny."

With a quick shake of his head, Harry's rough voice says, "No. Not at all." He glances down at his clothing, "I really appreciate it." Looking back into his father-in-law's soulful blue eyes, he asks, "How's she doing?"

Mr. Weasley grimaces. "Molly's with her. She still has a week before she can leave. Hasn't said much. She's resting but awake. I was on my way to the Tearoom to get off my feet, but I'll wait until after you've visited so we can talk a bit more." Smiling weakly, the older man nods in Ginny's direction and says, "Go ahead."

Harry swallows, stares at his feet, and walks to his wife's side. Raising his head, he sees Mrs. Weasley sitting on a stool on the other side of the bed. She's holding her daughter's hand and gently rubbing small circles on it with her thumb.

Harry chokes out, "I—"

Ginny turns away from him and curls into a ball.

He hovers his hand over her back, sensing the heat radiating from her body, wanting to touch her, but stopping himself. Clenching his outstretched hand and drawing it back to his side, he says, "I'm so sorry, Gin." His voice becomes even heavier and more broken. "I had…no idea. If I did…"

Mrs. Weasley's thin lips purse, and she slowly shakes her head. The plump woman's eyes, the same heartfelt brown as Ginny's, gaze sadly up at him. "Harry, dear. I don't think she's quite ready to talk to you yet."

Harry's shoulders slump, and he feels Mr. Weasley position his hands on them to guide him away.

"Come along, Harry. We don't want her growing too upset."

Harry follows Mr. Weasley not paying attention to where they were heading.

As they stroll, in a soft voice, his father figure says, "We know it was an accident, Harry, but it was an avoidable accident. Avoidable tragedy, really. You need to _finally_ accept help. You've managed to get by, but… I love you. We both do. But Ginny's our daughter, and we have to consider what's best for her..."

They come to a halt. Harry stares blankly at a brick fireplace and mindlessly nods until Mr. Weasley's voice ceases to speak. He receives a parting hug from Mr. Weasley and a handful of floo powder. Harry lets the dust fall through his fingers and dutifully mumbles. He doesn't notice the usual vertigo as a force squeezes his feet, legs, torso, and head through winding holes of space and time. With a green after image floating across his vision, Harry once again stands in his library.

Harry gazes at the ground for a few minutes. No blood mars the floor. Was all that transpired just another nightmare? Stepping from the hearth, he glances up at the mantel. The bowl decorated with a pair of flying swans still bears its recent crack. No, not a dream.

Harry finally takes a step. And then another, and another. His eyes shine but shed no tears. His breathing hitches, ribcage spasms, and his arms tremble. And then, collapsing hard onto his knees—a long wail erupts from chest, up his throat, and out his mouth; a harsh inhale following.

He crawls on the kitchen floor to the oak cabinet. Slamming his fist through its glass door, Harry wrenches out the first bottle his hand touches. As tears flow unbidden down his face, he begins to guzzle the searing liquid.

Finally…sweet oblivion.

* * *

A wet sucking sound, as Harry's cheek separates from the puddle of cold drool, breaks the stillness of the dim kitchen. He rolls onto his back with a groan and places a hand on his pounding head. A sharp sting triggers him to open his eyes, and he spots a deep gash across the back of his knuckles. Dried crimson flakes away when he flexes his hand.

After staggering to his feet, Harry balances against the breakfast table and fumbles around in his jacket pocket. His fingers find the small brass tin they were searching for and yank it out. He struggles to pop the lid, but once he succeeds, quickly tosses a mint into his mouth. As the tablet dissolves on Harry's tongue, his headache eases, and he exhales in relief.

A crimson dot drips on to the cotton tablecloth rapidly followed by two others. Harry grabs a discarded napkin and compresses it over the reopened wound on his hand.

He's about the release his wand and perform a simple healing charm when he thinks better of it. Since his magical credit limit has been greatly reduced, he should really start trying to conserve his spell usage whenever possible. So instead, Harry trudges up the steep staircase and into the only bathroom in the house through its hall entrance.

Self-igniting lamps flair to life when Harry opens the lavatory door. He rifles through the many drawers and cabinets until he discovers a jar of Murtlap Essence. Once Harry finished applying the healing solution and a bandage to his cut, he exits into the bedroom. The scene before him jolts his heart.

Stumbling and fighting back nausea, he plops down into a cushioned, corner chair.

On the armrest, Harry's fingernails absentmindedly pick at frayed, lilac upholstery fabric. He fixes his gaze on the perfectly made bed before him. The room smells of fresh, clean linens. He can't even see one mote of dust floating in the air. Mrs. Weasley did such a thorough job of erasing any speck of gore that she had turned the room into a tomb.

Harry can't drag his eyes away from the bed. The last time Ginny and he had made love was…on his birthday about three months ago. Three months. A tear splatters onto his pant leg.

Last July, he was becoming very dejected, not having had any success obtaining leads on the trafficking ring. The family had made a real effort to battle another bout of his depression with a great bash. From what he can recollect after the razz, it had been such a happy day.

Fuck it. He can use a bit of remembered joy, especially now. Leaning over, Harry unholsters his wand. He pokes the tip into his temple and says, "_Denuo_."

At first, memories from hours ago flash by, then days, and finally months until Harry's eyes open to the familiar view of a vaulted cream-painted ceiling pierced by dark-stained support beams.

Warm arms wrap around Harry's firm abdomen and a head rests on his chest. The lithe body rises above him as he deeply inhales the scent of sweet tea roses. Looking into crinkled eyes, his mouth answers the offered smile with one of his own. A kiss lands more on exposed teeth than on his lips, and he feels the vibrations from throaty amusement judder against his chest.

"Happy twenty-third birthday, Harry," his wife whispers into his ear.

"Thanks, Gin." He tucks a ruby lock of her hair behind an ear and strokes her cheek.

"I know the previous couple of months haven't been easy, but today is _your_ day…and," an impish simper spreads across her face, "I promise tonight will be unforgettable," she says waggling her eyebrows. "But first you need to get ready. You've slept-in enough." Harry groans as she tugs on his arm encouraging him to get out of bed.

"Come. On." She drawls out. "Take your shower. I'll start…breakfast?" Her brows scrunch. "Lunch? Brunch?" Ginny grins. "Well, whichever it is, you shall be eating like a king. I bought some fabulous imported thick-cut bacon..."

The smile on his wife's face gradually twists into a frown. She glides towards his nightstand and picks up a gold key. Dangling the piece of precious metal between two fingers for Harry to see, she says, "You know how I feel about leaving our vault key in any old place."

Harry forces himself not to roll his eyes. "Ginny, it was right next to me."

"No excuses, Harry. I hate that you make me have to nag you; I don't like doing it." She sighs. "But you can't keep something this valuable out in the open. Please, next time put it away after you're done. I'll go down to the library and…"

Harry's consciousness prods at the Recall Spell. He doesn't want to relive any arguments or routine happenings.

Time leaps forward.

The summer heat intensifies the fragrances from the orchard located behind the Weasley family home. His friends and family are tucking into a feast organized by Hermione, prepared by Mrs. Weasley, and—_supervised_ by Ginny.

Red and gold lanterns, floating above the long table, waver in the evening breeze. The yellow-green luminescence from lightning bugs reflects in the nearby pond. Croaks from frogs and songs from crickets add their own voices to the amicable chatter of the party-goers.

Harry watches Ron single-handedly devour the enormous roast that Hagrid had delivered earlier in the day.

As Mrs. Weasley stands up to leave the table, she says, "Ron. Weasley. Pace yourself or you'll need to be dragon-lifted from the table."

Ron's face screws in indignation and with his mouth still full says. "Wha'."

Hermione covers her snickering with a hand until she regains her composure and then informs her fiancé, "What she means Ronald is save some room for dessert. Or at least save some for Luna, who has an excuse for a third helping—she's expecting twins."

Harry starts laughing at Ron's reddening face, but pretends to come down with a coughing fit when his best friend glares at him. While raising his goblet in an attempt to hide his twitching lips, slim fingers loop around his wrist. Massaging his pulse-point with her thumb, Ginny tops his glass with more wine.

Already feeling a strong buzz, Harry smiles broadly at her and with a husky tone says, "Thanks, Gin."

Her answer is a lingering kiss on his ear.

"Now, none of that," George shouts seriously, blocking Fred Junior's eyes with his hands. "Think of the children," he cries in an exaggerated high falsetto, and the table bursts into hoots and laughter.

Oohs and aahs and explosions of colors catch Harry's attention.

Mrs. Weasley beams as she carries a five-layer treacle tart. It totters to-and-fro and would have toppled over if not for a few well-placed spells. A grand total of twenty-three floating candles are divvied between each story of the confection and a miniature fireworks display—thanks to George—whistles and pops atop its peak.

Eyes like saucers, Harry says, "I'm going to need all the help I can get to blow out the candles on _that_."

Harry calls Teddy, who's chasing after a garden gnome, and gestures for the little boy to sit next to him.

All the attendees sing the guest of honor "Happy Birthday." The whole Weasley clan, except for Charlie who is researching Lightning Dragons in Iceland. Hermione, though not an official member of the family, was all but presumed to be one. Neville and his girlfriend Hannah. A very pregnant Luna and her husband Rolf. Hagrid and his long-lived canine companion Fang. And of course, Teddy with his guardian and grandmother, the widow Andromeda Tonks.

"Hurry. Make a wish." Luna encourages.

Jumping up and down excitedly, Teddy groans, "Come on, Uncle Hare."

"Okay everyone. On the count of three," Harry instructs.

I wish…

"One!" shouts the guests.

…all who I love…

"Two!"

…prosperity and happiness.

"Three."

Harry grips his wand under the table. As he and everyone within range blows air on the flickering candles, Harry wordlessly casts the _Ventus_ jinx. A strong wind extinguishes all the flames at once and sends smoke spiraling into the starry night sky. His loved ones cheer, clap, and begin clamoring whether they want a cream or custard topping.

George, his eyebrows arched in a wicked grin, cups a hand around his mouth and whispers, "Couldn't have done it better myself, mate."

When Teddy starts nodding off above his syrupy plate, Mrs. Tonks decorously lays her fingers on Harry's palm and wishes Harry a goodnight.

Since Luna and Rolf are on hiatus from their jobs as magizoologists until the babies are born, they have been staying at Mrs. Tonks' residence, the bed and breakfast, The Fetching Inn. The couple decides to leave with the matriarch so Rolf can help carry the snoozing Teddy home.

Luna's airy laughter and her husband's low rumble sound when Harry gives them each a big bear hug goodbye. Watching Teddy softly snoring in Rolf's dark arms, Harry brushes his godson's bangs away from his forehead and places a quick kiss.

Once all the Weasley children are tucked into bed, Hagrid reveals a large jug of moonshine and the late-night revelry commences.

When most of the guests had retired for the evening, Mr. Weasley comes running from the direction of the barn waving something over his head.

Winded, the wizard swallows hard and says, "One more gift Harry. I was hoping to give it to you with everyone else's but the fine-tuning took longer than I had initially estimated. Here you are."

Harry, rather sloshed, struggles with the wrapper made from an old sheet of the Daily Prophet. After Harry exposes the steel-grey case with various colored wires hanging from it, his face lights up and he slurs, "Thanks s'Dad." He almost loses his equilibrium when he gives Mr. Weasley a tight squeeze and proceeds to slap a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

His father-in-law, chuckling, explains, "The booster is now fully automatic and has two settings—"

"At this point Dad," Ron interrupts, "I don't anticipate the birthday boy'll be retaining much of anything you say," he finishes with a snigger.

Harry's awareness has to agree with his friend. He was so bladdered from Hagrid's lethal homebrew that much of this is new to him.

Mrs. Weasley exhales, "Well, today went swimmingly. Don't you think?" She squints an eye at George and Ron. "It's getting late. Boys why don't you go and help Ginny take Harry…"

Time skips ahead.

Back in Godric's Hollow, George tugs Harry's arms and Ron pushes his bum up the stairwell. A few of the mish mash of photos that frame the adjacent wallpapered wall are knocked askew.

Dropping unceremoniously face-up onto the mattress, the bed jiggles from Harry's impact.

Ginny's brothers wish her well and give her a peck goodbye.

Eyelids closed, Harry listens as his wife walks towards a window and stands there until the thump of the front door reverberates through the house.

With the soft swish of garments falling to the floor, each pad of her foot grows louder.

Harry's weight shifts as Ginny slinks on to the mattress. Thighs, strong from frequent broom flying, straddle his hips.

He groggily opens his eyes and mumbles, "Gin?"

His wife's hair, unknotted from its tight bun, spills around her elfin features. Freckles decorate her fair skin and draw his gaze to the pert mounds on her chest.

She whispers in his ear, "Your birthday's not over yet."

Sighing, Harry shuts his eyes and says, "Can we d'this t'morrow. I'm tire'."

"Don't worry Harry. I'll do all the work. You just enjoy yourself." She whips her wand through the air, and his wrists are yanked above his head and restrained.

"Gin what'er ya doin'?"

In a coquettish manner, she says, "Thought we might try something more adventurous; spicin' things up a bit." She flicks the end of his nose with her tongue. "I did promise you a night that would be unforgettable."

He strains against the conjured shackles and realizes his spread legs are restricted as well.

"Gin," Harry demands, "lemme up."

"Please," her eyes implore, "you've been so busy; it's been weeks. Just give it a try, Sweetheart, please."

"N—"

Not waiting another moment, she engulfs his mouth with her own in a deep kiss and doesn't stop until she can see his cock start to harden underneath his pants.

Nibbling her way down to his collarbone, her fingers begin to unfasten the buttons of his dress shirt. As his flushed skin is revealed, inch-by-inch, her silky lips kiss; hot tongue swirls, and white teeth taunt, marking him with rosy blotches.

Harry can't help but moan in pleasure, thrashing his bound arms and legs.

Ginny's nails feather over his chest and erect nipples as she shoves away cotton fabric. Harry's body, toned and slightly tanned from his work as an Auror, shivers from her hungry stare.

Gliding her hazel-wood wand along his skin, she trails the line of his breastbone to the center ridge of his abdominal muscles down until she tickles the dark patch below his belly button that continues under his fastened pants.

She roughly palms his hard-on through his slacks and his back bows away from the bed.

A charm unbuttons his trousers and slowly unzips his fly. Fabric forcibly tearing apart causes Harry's heartbeat to quicken. Each leg of both his boxer-briefs and pants split in half down the middle. The cloth splays open and reveals his lower body. Cool air assaults his rigid sensitive shaft.

Scooting down, Ginny's juices smear on his leg. She grips her fingers around his velvety skin causing Harry to grunt. While she pumps his cock until a bead of pre-come leaks out from its tiny mouth, Harry's form writhes and his toes curl. He gasps and wantonly arches his neck when his wife licks the shiny head.

Smacking her lips, she says, "You taste so good," then sighs, "I've missed this."

"Gin," Harry begs. He starts panicking and rocks his head back-and-forth; the confinement unearthing horrible memories of when he was at Voldemort's mercy, and he screams, "Untie me!"

"I know you're also attracted to men, Harry." Beneath his sweaty brow, his eyes widen. "Sometimes," she continues, "when you're sleeping, I hear you moan their names; it doesn't bother me—they're dreams. I just wished you'd confide in me like you used to." Ginny looks into his upset eyes and fervently says, "Harry for your birthday, I'm giving you what you want—what you truly need. I _refuse_ to give up on us."

Ginny proceeds to stick the tip of her wand in her mouth and coats it with saliva. Her wand presses against his virgin opening. Harry vigorously shakes his head "no" and he tries to maneuver out of the way.

After gingerly slipping the dark rod into Harry's puckered hole, Ginny says, "_Tremo_."

Harry's mouth opens in a silent cry as foreign vibrations shoots waves of pulsing warmth throughout his entire body. Even with her gentle handling, a trickle of blood slides from his impaled bottom. His newfound pleasure overrides any discomfort, and heavy-lidded he compulsively fucks the air.

His wife reposition her slick folds over his leaking member and with one sure plunge, envelops him in her heat.

Through the fog of his drunkenness and arousal Harry shouts, "Wait!" Panting, he says, "M'Sterility Potion." When her hips rise, he groans, "N'Stop."

Ginny pulls out a bottle from under a pillow. "Relax. It's right here," she soothes. The stopper is discarded on the floor and she pours the potion into her mouth. After swallowing a small amount, she bends over and urges his lips to spread giving him the rest of the cloyingly sweet potion with a kiss.

Harry's consciousness thus far has had mixed emotions, but after glimpsing the bottle in Ginny's hand, he knows something is wrong.

His usual potion resembles clear water, not a dark, red, nearly black syrup, and it tastes bitter not sweet.

Ginny begins to pant hard; her pupils becoming so dilated that her eyes resemble fathomless pits.

A second later, lust like fire consumes Harry's mind and body. His already aroused cock hardens even further—

Harry's current self reflects, "She didn't become pregnant because of a bad potion batch as he was led to believe. She tricked me! She lied to me!...She used me."

Harry ejects his awareness, keeping himself from having to re-experience all sensations from a first-person perspective. Instead, he stands by the bedside and watches as if it were a typical Pensieve memory.

"No," he says in disbelief as Ginny's fucks his moaning doppelgänger. "I-I can't believe you…you forced me," he yells at his unhearing wife. "Did you actually expect _this_ would solve all of our problems, Ginny? A baby. I know you argued that George got better after Fred was born, but I'm. Not. Him!"

Ginny flings her head back and screams, "Harry," as her walls spasm and coax the shaft hidden within her. Her victim bucks his own completion with incoherent shouts of endearments.

Smiling dumbly at his wife, pseudo-Harry croons, "You're m'sun Gin; I'd 'ave drown n' for you aft'r th' war. N'matter how deep I sunk, y'were there."

Stroking his cheek and releasing the binding spell, she shushes him and quietly says, "Sleep, Sweetheart."

"Love y'Gin," he mumbles and falls asleep.

Harry's breath catches as the Recall Charm terminates. Leaping from the antique armchair, the view of the pristine bed hammers his heart into a pulpy mess. With a bellowing roar, he thrusts his wand at the repulsive sight and booms, "_Bombarda_!" Wood splinters and the mattress shreds; tufts of cotton float in the air.

Nonverbally flinging open the door to her closet, he combusts everything within it. Every bag. Every dress. Everything.

Harry rushes down the stairs, needing to escape the scene of his violation. As he descends, he slings one blast that simultaneously shatters any wall hanging that frames an image of his wife. Just thinking the word "wife" makes him sick.

Shiny metal captures his attention as Harry walks down the hallway. He backtracks and enters the family room. A wall, dedicated to Ginny's Quidditch trophies and medals, mocks him. He's about to throw another spell but stops. Fuck her! After her betrayal, she's not worth any more credits or seconds of his life.

Harry passes into the library, standing in the middle, he demands, "_Accio_ _Potter Vault Key_."

A book from a shelf smacks onto the floor. Harry grabs the hardcover, titled _Alcoholism: The First Step Is Admitting You Have a Problem_. Curling his lip, he says, "Real bloody subtle, Ginny."

From the wards placed upon the book, it feels fuzzy, like it conducts a static charge. Harry lifts the front cover, and a familiar key, inherited from his mum and dad, gleams within a shallow hollow. The key slips into his jacket pocket, and his fingers search for another item. While striding to the fireplace, he finds what he wanted and ignites a floo call.

Kneeling down, he reads the cheery colored piece of cardstock in his mind: Burrow under Teutates Falls and then plunges his head into green flames.

In a workshop of sorts, two she-goblins busy by the fire. One quite large for a goblin, let alone a she-goblin, sharpens a wicked-looking sword, and the other, so petite she wouldn't reach his knees, is…welding; sparks from her work falling onto the hearth.

The weapon wielding she-goblin points her blade at him and in a rich soprano voice asks, "Who. Are. You?"

Flinching away, Harry cautiously asks, "Is Kluga home?"

The welder's child-like voice screams, "Kluga! You have a call!"

"Who is it, Lista?" Kluga's shouts back.

Before Lista can respond, the intimidating she-goblin jabs her blade and growls, "He won't say."

"I'm Harry Potter. Kluga gave—"

"Oh, Medusa's girdle!" Kluga cries, racing into the room. "For Ragnuk's sword! Lower your weapon, Rassig," she says in a harsh hushed tone. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Potter. Don't mind my _younger_ sisters," she grits. "How can I be of service? Did you want to go ahead and purchase a safe?"

A laugh escapes his lips, "Ah, no. I was wondering if you can help me with my estate."

Kluga's eyes open wide. "Y-You want me to be your Solicitor?"

"Can a Solicitor stop my wife from accessing all assets that I owned before we were married and remove her rights to gifts that were given to me after we were married?"

The she-goblin nods her head 'yes'.

"And can a Solicitor set up another vault that my wife can use that contains only money and other valuables acquired after we were married."

"Yes Mr. Potter," Kluga answers, "With your permission, a Solicitor can handle all your legal affairs."

Harry smiles at the she-goblin and says, "Then yes, for whatever's the accepted rate, I would be most appreciative if you would act as my Solicitor. And please call me Harry."

Kluga squeals and claps her hands. "You are my first client, sir."

"How old are you if you don't mind me asking."

"I'm seventeen," Kluga bites her lip, "but I've studied all the required texts—thoroughly. Is my age a problem…Harry?"

He smiles and shakes his head, "No. No, problem. The Wizarding World has a habit of forcing its children to grow up much too fast. I'm completely confident you're up to the task."

"I'll immediately start reallocating your property, and all will be ready by the morrow. Mr…Harry, I hope I'm not being too presumptuous, but do you desire to legally divorce your wife, as well?"

Harry gut sinks. Ginny and he shared so much history. As much as he now abhors her, he _still_ loves her; that's what hurts so damn much. But could he ever go back to her. No. He must finally admit that their marriage is irrevocably broken—and has been for some time. At some point during their marriage, the mutual respect and trust between them died. Even if it means losing the love of his in-laws, he can't imagine himself returning to her side as a husband.

"Yes, Kluga. I would like to officially separate from my wife."

"Alright," she nods then lowering her gaze says, "I can owl all necessary correspondence or if you would prefer, I can personally deliver any documents."

"It's up to you," replies Harry.

Continuing to look away, Kluga says, "Since I've never actually been beyond The Warren or Gringotts," her black eyes refocus on Harry, "I would love a chance to see what's out there, in person, not just from a book."

"Then it's settled." Harry beams. "Thanks so much for your help, Kluga. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Grinning from ear-to-ear, she thanks him too.

Harry ends the call, breathes deeply, and exits the room. Memories of Ginny hit him from every angle. Celebrating an intimate Christmas Eve in the family room. Chasing each other around the house naked. Having make up sex on the kitchen table.

He sighs, glances around one last time, and places his house key on the countertop. Wiping unwelcome tears off his face, he leaves the life he has known for good.

Harry jogs behind his former home to a large storage shed. The building, towered by two black alder trees, is a new structure but was designed in the same style as the Tudor cottage.

After pushing the two hefty rolling doors open, Harry's delighted face takes in the sight.

He had fibbed to George. The weapons inventor had crafted Harry a far superior holster than anything currently available. An arm holster only works with a small wand or with a wand charmed with an easily cancelled shrinking enchantment. A wand in an obvious waist or shoulder holster can be stolen with a simple _Accio_. Not to mention most holsters aren't protected from damaged that can occur during hand-to-hand combat.

His new ankle holster was a fantastic present, but this—this one was his favorite.

Inside sits an enchanted 1964 Triumph Spitfire convertible. It's been a pet project for the past two years. After Sirius' motorbike was returned to him after the war, Ginny harped about the uncomfortable sidecar. This beauty was the compromise.

With Mr. Weasley's help—Harry's heart pangs thinking about his soon to be ex-father-in-law—it went from being a rusty pile of scrap to being a dazzling showstopper.

Glossy black with chrome detailing. Cream leather upholstery and charcoal trim. The perfect balance of elegance and sportiness.

He loved the car so much that it caused him to break his own rule by leveraging his influence as "The Boy Who Lived" to obtain a proper license from the Ministry. The only caveat was that the automobile needed improved protection against possible Muggle-sightings while in flight.

That's what Mr. Weasley gave him for his birthday, an improved Invisibility Booster. The enhanced booster automatically activates when the vehicle is in use, and it has adjustable settings: Complete, which makes it invisible to everyone outside the cabin, and Muggle, which makes it invisible only to non-magicals. With the upgrade, Harry can now fly the sleek sportster anywhere.

"Good evening, Jinn," Harry greets the car, using the original Arabic pronunciation of the name, which sounds like 'shzenna.' "Would you like to go for a ride?"

The engine purrs to life and a sweet honk answers.

"How about some fresh air," Harry suggests. The roof retracts and Harry slides into the supple-leather driver's seat.

After clearing any tree cover, Jinn begins to increase in altitude. The crisp evening breeze ruffles Harry's hair. He circles the old Tudor once, before zooming away from the tranquil countryside and towards London.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight **

Slap, slap, slap…

Smacks of skin on skin rebound throughout a shadowed room.

A thin pasty hand, coiled with strength, holds Snape's toned arms by his wrists, bent at a cruel angle against the crook of his back. The Potions Master's abdomen contracts tightly with every exhale, and a bead of his sweat trickles from the plateau of his ribs onto the smooth valley of his abdomen.

"My Half-Blood Prince do not close your eyes," the Dark Lord's soft rasping voice demands. His sharp, glacier-blue nail moves a strand of hair from Snape's face and leaves a stinging red trail along his cheek.

Scrunched eyelids opening, the Potions Master pants, "My Lord…it's too much." His taut pale legs tighten around Tom's pounding thighs, swathed in slippery silken robes, which blend into the dark surroundings.

Voldemort slides the fingers of his free hand up the side of Snape's smooth body and behind his lover's neck, pulling him closer. He hisses with force, "You may have release—when I allow it."

The Potion Master's back bows away from the desk, "Please, my Lord," and he pushes his arse upwards to meet the next violent thrust. Tom's long cock stabs deeper into Snape's tight tunnel causing both of them to moan.

"Severus," the Dark Lord grits through stained teeth and emphasizing his next words with hard jabs of his cock, grunts, "begging. Is. Beneath. You."

Skeletal fingers lightly trace across Snape's defined chest, and then violently pinch an erect nipple, causing the Potions Master to writhe. As Tom's clammy hand continues to travel across Snape's faintly scarred abs, he hisses, "Is he not magnificent? Do you not wish you were me at this very moment and not merely a numb voyeur?"

"My Lord?" Brow furrowed, Snape glances around the dim study.

Voldemort wraps his hand around his lover's hard member, covered in a slick gloss, and rubs a thumb over its leaking head.

"Severus," the Dark Lord gasps, "Harry is with us." Squeezing and pulling his partner's full sack, Tom orders, "Come!"

Dilated dark eyes stare straight at Harry. The sweat-glistened man's mouth falls open and a heavy baritone groan erupts from his throat.

Harry awakens mid-release moaning his former Professor's first name; his body strains as it arches off the bed. The sheets surge around his form as his limbs flail underneath it from the strength of the spasms rocking his body. Gasping after the last strong pulse ends, Harry's tense muscles go limp.

Breathing hard, his skin coated with a layer of perspiration, Harry shoves away and extracts himself from the gooey blankets knotted around his body. He sits up, covers his face with both hands, and hunches over his bent knees. Rubbing his palms hard against his morning stubble, Harry grinds his teeth and snarls, "Fuck!"

When Harry was a child, he touched himself, as children tend to do, discovering the nest of nerves, around and inside his sensitive opening. Harry's close-minded uncle found him while he was in the midst of his innocent self-exploration.

At the time, Harry didn't understand all his Uncle Vernon's ravings about "disgusting and vile poofs." What Harry did understand was the result of his actions. The beating his uncle gave him had been so severe that he had remained home from school with the "flu" for two weeks.

His Aunt Petunia had said he was lucky. That he was punished so harshly because his uncle cared.

Then the linked dreams of Tom, sodomizing his followers and victims, began after his fourth year at the age of only fourteen. Harry had moments of weakness when he would wank one off, but he never ventured near his arse again; to do so would have been wrong and dirty. _Disgusting_.

Now, as an adult, Harry understands nothing's wrong with being attracted to and wanting a romantic relationship with a man, but since every memory he has which explores that side of his sexuality is tinged with pain or fear, it has been hard for his rational mind to convince his emotional heart.

Not to mention, he hasn't really had an opportunity. After the war, Ginny and he became an exclusive couple. Both the female and male forms have their own beauty. He had Ginny. He loved her and was physically attracted to her. There was no reason for him to seek someone else out.

When Ginny and he first started exploring each other's bodies, she had picked up on his discomfort when her fingers had slid up the crack of his arse, and hadn't gone near it again until…

Harry remembers what Ginny had done to his bum, the physical pleasure from the stimulation. It had felt so good, but he had hated it…yet he had loved it.

Merlin, he's so bloody confused.

Maybe he's a masochist? As much as he was scared shiteless during all the terrible events in his past, he was still aroused—was still able to keep his prick up—and even come.

"Argh," Harry growls and shakes his head, trying to fling the dark contemplations and memories from his mind; long strands of his hair tickling his bare shoulders and back. He takes a deep shuddering breath and calms himself.

Relaxed once again, Harry glances down at his naked body. The chafing clothes he had worn yesterday had been pretty awful, and he had made sure to strip them off before crawling into bed.

Before falling asleep, he had relished the sensation of the soft and smooth high-count sheets caressing his bare skin; not the well-used, scratchy linens he had become accustomed to.

Harry plops back down on the plush, down-filled-pillow-top mattress with a contented sigh and gazes up above at the hunter-green canopy. His eyes explore a polished, intricately carved dark-wood post and discover various snakes hiding among blossoms.

Kreacher had really outdone himself in restoring the Black family's ancestral home to its former glory.

Late the previous evening, Harry, exhilarated from his car flight, had arrived at his rarely used, inherited home. He had entered the darkened ground floor and ascended the stairs to the first floor, walking through the drawing room, and entering the only bedroom on that floor. The bedroom that Hermione and Gi—, no, his soon to be ex-wife, had used during the war.

Speaking of…he should get ready.

After stretching and reveling in the warm sheets for a few more heartbeats, Harry slides off the bed. A thick, vibrantly colored Persian rug that covers much of the dark hardwood cushions his feet. Streaks of light break through the sides of the thick curtained windows onto the surface of the floor and glister like timeworn white scars.

Harry grabs his wand from a green Connemara marble-top nightstand. His still unopened-resized decorative box and other personal effects, removed from his leather jacket, remain on the table top.

After relieving himself in the toilet and taking a hot steam-shower, Harry, in only a large fluffy black towel, wrapped securely around his head, calls for Kreacher as he walks back into the attached bedroom.

With a pop, the house-elf stands before Harry, staring unblinkingly at his nakedness, and asks in a low voice, "What would Master be needing?"

"Well, Kreacher, it seems that Grimmauld Place will be my residence from now on."

Eyes gleaming, the house-elf asks, "And the mistress…?"

Matter-of-factly, Harry replies, "She and I had a falling out—a permanent falling out. She won't be joining me."

Nodding his head in sage understanding, Kreacher says, "Never much cared for her Master," then shaking his head, he mutters under his breath, "told Master the blood-traitor would be trouble."

Used to house-elf's crusty demeanor, especially when concerning Ginny, Harry continues, "The reason I called you was because I didn't pack any clothes. Could you—"

With zeal, the house-elf asserts, "Master shouldn't wear Muggle rags." The clothes that Harry had tossed on the floor the previous night ignite and then disappear.

Kreacher peers at Harry's body, causing the wizard to feel self-conscious. Tilting his head to the side, the elf mumbles "Should do. Should do."

With a sharp gesture of his index finger, the elf indicates for Harry to follow. When they reach the far wall of the bedroom, the elf snaps his fingers and a section of the rich wood paneling sinks a few inches and glides to the left, revealing a brightly lit rectangular opening.

"This was once Master Cygnus' room," the house-elf explains. "He's the great grandfather of Little Master Teddy. Besides you and Master _Sirius_," Kreacher spits his former master's name, "he was the last Black heir of this house."

The elf glances at Harry from of the corner an eye and with a wry smile, motions for Harry to take a look.

Harry sees a…colossal walk-in wardrobe. Expertly crafted robes, garments, and accessories fill the space. The custom-tailored attire is so refined, even given their age, that they remain chic and sophisticated.

Scurrying past Harry, the house-elf uses his magic to lower cashmere, charcoal-grey robes. He examines his choice, squints at Harry, and nodding his head in satisfaction, says, "Needn't be altered." Kreacher also selects a pair of dark dress slacks, a crisp, white buttoned shirt, a midnight-green waistcoat, and a pair of socks and black Oxfords.

"What about underwear?" Harry requests.

The house-elf stares blankly at him.

"Okay," Harry drawls out and then laughs, "no underwear, I guess noble purebloods don't deign to wear them." But his chuckle catches in his throat when his words bring to mind the memory of Malfoy's fingers between his lips. Harry's eyebrows lift, and he asks himself, "What if Draco was going commando at the time?" Clenching his fists tight, a quiet moan escapes his mouth, and his cock twitches. Damn his mind and the gutter it resides in. He relaxes his hands, wiggles his fingers, and forces his lascivious thoughts away.

Harry accepts the pile of garments from Kreacher's outstretched arms. After walking to a cushioned bench, situated in the middle of the large closet, he begins to lay out the articles of his outfit. When his fingers encounter the fitted robes, he smoothes his hand over the material enjoying its sumptuous softness.

Right after the war, he and Ginny, his staunchest emotional supporter, had dwelt in Grimmauld Place for a time. Because of the press and paparazzi's constant hounding, which turned their residence into a virtual prison, they fled to an undisclosed location in the surrounding countryside of Ottery St. Catchpole; the same small town that Ginny's childhood home, The Burrow, was near. After the media frenzy calmed down, Ginny still wished to remain in the rural environment so familiar to her. Harry acquiesced, and they continued renting their cramped flat from the Fawcett family.

Before they were married, Harry had suggested they move back to Grimmauld, but she had declined. Perhaps she knew that Mrs. Weasley had wanted to give them the Godric's Hollow cottage.

Ginny and he were able to support themselves off the interest his fortune accrued and donated a majority of their annual earnings to their favorite causes such as the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare or S.P.E.W, which was established by Hermione, the Society for the Support of Squibs, and the Society for Distressed Witches.

Thus the reason, given the size of his vaults, Harry lived a modest existence.

But now...Harry could appreciate how a few…luxuries can make you feel—good.

After Harry dressed, he exits the closet with a bit of bounce in his step. Admiring his new robes, he strokes the length of each sleeve following the detailed hand-sewn stitching. Harry grunts when he bumps into his house-elf and immediately apologizes, "Sorry, Kreacher, didn't mean to run into you."

Standing resolutely the house-elf informs his master that he isn't done.

A brush appears in Kreacher's hand and floats upward. The bristles transform the frizzy mess of Harry's hair into a sleek black cascade. The elf shaves Harry's five-days-worth of facial hair in the same manner with a freshly sharpened straight-edged razor—goes to show how much Harry has grown to trust the old elf. Lastly, Kreacher produces a bottle and spritzes on a light, delicate floral scent that has hints of vanilla, orange, and star anise.

Preening over his handiwork, the elf grins. "It has been many years since Kreacher has cared for another so." Nodding his head in approval, the house-elf declares, "Yes, Master now looks respectable and befitting The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Squatting down so he can face the little house-elf, Harry says, "Thank you, Kreacher. Will you be returning to Hogwarts?"

"If Master will be living here, Kreacher would like to stay."

"Won't you miss working with all the other house-elves?"

"'Tis Kreacher's solemn duty to serve this most noble house." The elf screws his head to the side with scrutiny and then straighten Harry's collar. "I wish to stay if Master will allow it."

"Of course you can stay." Harry stands and smiles. "You can visit Hogwarts whenever you like too."

The house-elf bows his head. "Master's most generous." Resuming his stooped posture, he mutters to himself, "Kreacher mustn't forget." With a puff of air, a round, green-gold pin, the diameter of a silver sickle coin, materializes in the elf's hand. The design on the greenish-yellow piece of precious metal mimics the scheme of the bedroom—serpents and flowers. Around the circumference of the pin reads the Black family motto: _Toujours pur_. Always Pure.

Harry backs away a step and objects, "I can't wear that. It wouldn't be right."

Kreacher frowns, and Harry wonders if the house-elf can still see from beneath the heavy folds of his eyelids.

The elf earnestly insists, "Kreacher thinks Master is kind and most _pure_ of heart."

Harry sighs and not wanting to hurt the house-elf's feelings, allows him to attach the pin between the lapels of his shirt…and emerald cufflinks…and a hexed goblin-gold pocket chain that secures keys and a money bag.

After expressing his gratitude to Kreacher, Harry walks to his bedside table. He picks up Snape's box and teases the lip of its lid with the pads of his fingers. Later.

Setting the container back down, Harry places all pertinent items, into pockets hidden within the silk, hyacinth-purple lining of his robes or on his newly acquired spelled chain.

His clothes hug his body flawlessly due to infused enchantments on the garments that hide any lumps or wrinkles that would otherwise spoil the line of the fabric.

Exiting the bedroom, Harry walks into the adjacent drawing room, squinting from the brightness. As his eyes adjust and he passes through the formal meeting space heading towards the stairs, he scans the room.

Large windows free from dirt sparkle and allow the maximum amount of morning sunlight into the room. An ornate writing desk and a grand piano sit dust-free; the smell of citrus oil filling the air. Harry glances at the great tapestry of the Black family tree on the opposite wall.

The gold threads throughout the ancient wall hanging reflect the radiance of the rising sun. Damage from Doxys gnawing on the tapestry and the burn marks inflicted by the deceased Walburga Black, who blasted the image of any disowned Black descendant, lessen its grandeur.

Sirius, Harry's sadly departed godfather, was removed by Walburga, his own mother, for being a blood-traitor. His godfather had explained that his Uncle Alphard was obliterated from the family tree posthumously just because he had willed Sirius gold.

Since Andromeda, Teddy's grandmother, also born a Black, married the Muggle-born wizard, Ted Tonks, her picture is also an ash smear.

The saddest tale Harry heard of an erased Black family member was the story of Marius, Sirius' great-uncle. Marius was disowned as a young child when it was discovered he was a Squib, a wizard born with no magic.

What happened to himself, losing both his parents as an infant was awful. What happened to Neville, losing both parents to insanity, was worse. But to be cast out by your own family as a young boy, Harry couldn't grasp the cruelty of it. He had wanted to mend the tapestry right then and there but Sirius had said that his mother had strongly warded it and had told no one the counter-curse before she died.

Not even Harry's brother-in-law, Bill Weasley, an expert Curse-Breaker, could make a dent. The diagnosis was that repair or removal would have to wait until Walburga's barriers naturally weakened over the next century. Odious old woman.

Leaving the drawing room, Harry descends the staircase; delicious smells guiding his feet. His stomach cramps, and he realizes that he hasn't eaten a real meal in…days. Tiptoeing past Walburga's curtained, sleeping portrait and around a corner, he enters the dining room.

On a light, unstained, wood-planked table, Harry spies a plate of still steaming Scotch woodcock. The creamy scrambled eggs served over toast steams and wafts a aroma that reminds Harry of the briny sea. Tangy anchovy-infused Gentleman's Relish tops the dish and makes Harry's mouth water. A bowl of cut fruit, a stack of freshly made drop-scones, a variety of fruit preserves, a pot of steeping tea, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice completes the wonderful spread.

Harry smiles at Kreacher's thoughtfulness. Why Ginny hadn't fancied the house-elf's help; he'll never understand.

Every bite and sip he takes reminds him of the feasts he grew up eating at Hogwarts; it's pure heaven. Just as Harry finishes his meal and wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin, the silver knocker on the front door booms three times.

Harry winces as Walburga's portrait rouses, and her shrill muffled screams start echoing down the hallway.

Straightening his robes, Harry walks to the entrance and opens the door. A handsome Muggle postman, wearing a red polo shirt, a bright orange reflective waistcoat, and black trousers, smiles at him.

Looking at the stranger in absolute confusion, Harry asks, "Uhh, can I help you?"

The man grins and in a smooth voice, he says, "Yes, I have an important package I need to deliver."

Harry's gaze can't help but flick towards the man's groin area. Closing his eyes for a millisecond and shaking his head, Harry flounders, "I'm sorry. What?"

The mail carrier bites his lower lip and staring fixedly at Harry says, "I'm expected. Yesterday, I spoke to Mr. Potter about his estate."

Harry's eyes shoot wide-open, and then brows furrowing, he cautiously replies, "I'm Harry Potter…Kluga?"

"Oh, Sir!" The orange clad man covers his mouth with his hands. "I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you…you no longer have all that hair on your face and your attire… Wow!" The outed she-elf reaches and trails her fingers across his robes. "You're so…different."

After a sluggish blink, Harry slowly asks, "Why do you look like…that?"

A deep rich laugh explodes from the oddly transfigured she-elf's body. "Before I left, I knew I couldn't travel around Muggle London appearing as I usually do, and what's the fun if I can't interact with anyone. Then I saw this," Kluga gestures at herself, "Muggle delivering important correspondence. I thought it would be a most convincing disguise." Kluga's masked appearance hops once and claps. "It has been a very exciting morning journeying to your residence, Sir. I've always wanted to see how Muggles live without the convenience of magic and have learnt so much!"

As she continues to talk without pause, Harry tugs on her arms and guides her into the house, closing the door.

"On my way, I paid a short stop to a Muggle bank—for educational purposes of course," she assures him. "They were most accommodating and allowed me into their offices. Their monetary counting machine, the Come-Pewter, was ingenious. Lista will be so fascinated when I tell her about it." She shakes her head in disbelief. "It's amazing how they transformed pewter into such a contraption.

"Their 'Tube' system is a marvelous feat. What it doesn't have in scope and speed it makes up with comforts. The ride was smooth enough that," she nearly shouts, "many could read at their leisure.

"And it's surprising how very accepting Muggles are. As I was strolling to your residence, one kind woman insisted I visit, gave me tea and biscuits, and we chatted. Then she offered me a lovely massage. I, regrettably, had to decline." Kluga beams at Harry. "Didn't want to keep you waiting too long, Sir."

Harry could only gape at Kluga in astonishment. Was he once so…carefree? She reminds him of himself when he first found out about the Wizarding World. Harry smiles. She's finding her own magic. Harry chuckles—and with the same irreverent spontaneity.

He ushers Kluga into the dining room with its floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelving and cabinets. His dirty dishes are gone but the beverages remain with a new basket of scones.

Harry suggests, "Please have a seat?"

Kluga's facade as a postman shimmers and bubbles. A slow ripple begins over her heart and expands. With a crack, she is once again her diminutive self.

The she-goblin wears a sky-blue dress adorned with orange polk-a-dots. Cat-rimmed sunglasses hang from her neck on a decorative chain. Her bouffant, looking like a white cloud, floats above her head, making her resemble Marie Antoinette; a feather pen sticking out from its side.

"Again, my thanks," her high-pitched voice says and she fondly touches the frames. "Lista altered the appearance a bit." She quickly finishes, "Hope you don't mind." Her big black eyes purposely flutter twice.

Harry grins. "No, I don't mind at all. I'm happy that they're serving you well."

Kluga returns his grin. "Yes, they have."

After he pulls out the chair for his Solicitor, she climbs onto it. Harry senses the tingle of magic and watches as her chair seat shoots up a few inches. While Harry pours them both a cup of tea, Kluga enlarges an iron chest. From it, she pulls out a bottle of glittery black ink, rolled-up parchments, and a small envelope.

His nerves start to hit him, and he drops the silver teapot onto the table with a loud thud.

"Sorry," Harry apologizes sheepishly.

Kluga pats Harry's hand and with a compassionate smile, she reassures, "Harry, you don't have to sign anything you don't feel comfortable with."

Harry closes his eyes and nods. "I know." He takes a deep breath and gazing directly into the she-elf's eyes asserts, "I'm ready."

Kluga unrolls the scrolls and before Harry signs his initials, explains each section of the legal document thoroughly. Before he inscribes his full signature at the bottom of the last page, Kluga asks him to read the final paragraph aloud.

As a tear slips from his eye, Harry avows, "_I, Harry James Potter, do hereby affirm that on the twenty-seventh day of October in the year 2003, of my own free will and with a sound mind, dissolve my wedded marriage from Ginevra Cedrella Weasley._"

For a few minutes, his quill hovers over the document.

At last, his face severe with resolve, Harry unfalteringly scrawls his name. The tip of his writing instrument almost gouging the paper when he crosses the t's. As soon as the nib rises, the ink smokes and the parchment flashes.

The quill slips from Harry's fingers and his head sinks into his hands.

"Harry, are you alright?"

Clearing his throat, Harry softly says, "Yes, I'm fine." After lifting his head, he focuses on the signed document in thought.

"There...is something else I would like to give her." Harry unsheathes his wand and calmly extracts a copy of the recollection about his wife's betrayal.

Kluga, anticipating her client's intention, cleans out the ink jar and offers it to Harry.

"When the parchments and her vault key," he points at the small sealed envelope, "are delivered to my ex-wife, I would also like this to be included. After only she views it, I want it destroyed. Also…"

Harry jots a brief note:

I'll get help, but we are through.

He places the short missive in the she-goblin's long-fingered hand, "Give this to Ginny—last."

Kluga affirms, "Shouldn't be a problem; I'll see to it myself. Anything else I can assist you with today?" she probes, "A deposit. A withdrawal…A new safe?"

Harry cracks a smile and shakes his head "no".

"Well, then I shall be off." She packs the tools of her trade, returns the chair to its original state, and climbs off. "I really appreciate you choosing me as your Solicitor, Harry."

"No, no." With sincerity, he says, "It's _I_ who should be thanking you."

They both head towards the main entrance.

"If you need anything," the she-elf hugs Harry's legs and tilts her face up, "galleons exchanged into Muggle currency, a listening ear, or even a-a joyride through the vaults," she smiles, "I'm only an owl or floo call away."

A whoosh of air hits Harry's face, and he is once again face-to-face with the attractive postman.

With a mischievous grin, Kluga's fingertips barely brush his left arse cheek as she turns to depart.

Harry's eyebrows lift. Shaking his head, he watches Kluga mosey down the sidewalk.

A large smile breaks his melancholy mood, exiting himself, he saunters to Jinn parked across the street.

* * *

Hermione J. Granger, P.M.

The shiny brass nameplate on Hermione's office door reflects Harry's intense jade eyes, which look like two iridescent serpent scales in the dim Ministry hall.

When the Ministry had refused to provide a plaque for her door, Harry remembers how vexed she had been.

"What if a wizard or witch who is magically challenged," her term for a squib, "needs my help!" She had shouted.

By that evening she had designed, ordered, and purchased a nameplate, and before the day had ended, was screwing it into the door herself.

Currently, Hermione works as the Apprentice Registrar Potions Officer and is completing her fellowship under Head Healer Rafael Altancalyx. One of her responsibilities is to act as the liaison between St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and the Ministry of Magic Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Substances.

Also, his ambitious friend serves, for a pittance, as a part-time caseworker for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which is continuously underfunded.

The door cracks open with a click of its latch.

"So you _are_ a Healer," states a voice sounding like two grinding stones.

A feminine hand on the doorknob peeks from the slightly ajar door.

"Actually, Mr. Noxton. I prefer to be known as a Potions Mistress that specializes in Healing. Remember thrice daily behind your left ear. I wrote a large "L" on the bottle as a reminder. Good day, sir."

"Yes. Thank you Heal—. Ah. Hah." The man clears his throat and then enunciates, "Potions Mistress."

Hermione's patient comes to a complete halt when he notices Harry. With a respectful tilt of his head, the man assuming Harry a pureblood, he quickly departs down the windowless passage.

Harry hears a gasp.

"H-Harry?" Hermione gawks at Harry's classy appearance, not his usual Auror robes or Muggle clothing.

"Same bedside manner I see," Harry affectionately teases, recalling her patient's hasty retreat.

He walks into his longtime friend's office and shuts the door.

"That's why I prefer _not_ being called a Healer." After harrumphing, her amused face begins to crumble.

Hermione wraps her arms around him in a big hug. Her eyes start to glisten, and she utters tenderly, "I'm so sorry Harry. I just heard. How's Ginny doing?"

Harry returns the embrace with a strong squeeze and mumbles into her shoulder, "I don't know." He steps back and folds his arms over his chest. "Last time I saw her, she had been stabilized. Dad and Mum are with her. I—"

Harry's throat tightens and he swallows hard. Eyes shining, his thick voice says, "I unearthed something else about the pregnancy—we're done. Signed the divorce papers earlier today. I shouldn't tell you anymore. You two are as close as sisters, and I don't want to ruin that for you."

Hermione stares at him in shock and asks, "Was it an affair?"

Harry bites his sealed lips and shakes his head. He begins to rub the top of his hand with a nail. "I, I can't," he chokes out.

Hermione plants her hand over his to halt him from further marking himself. "It's okay, Harry. I trust you did what you had to do. You know Ron and I will stay by your side no matter what. Did you visit only to tell me about your separation?"

"No, I'm here…to get help."

Her eyes gently close and salty drops immediately start pouring down her cheeks. In a high-pitched whisper, she asks, "Really?"

Harry takes her hands into his own and nods; tears finally escaping from his eyes too.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you speak those words, Harry."

Fidgeting, Harry inquires, "What do I have to do?"

As she wipes her cheeks with her palms, she says, "First let me do my standard diagnostic." She points at a taupe leather sofa sitting next to a tall, colorful-leaved croton plant. "You may take a seat over there."

They both cross the office, while a flock of lavender paper-airplanes trail behind them.

Once he's seated, Hermione's swats at the messages, "Shoo! I'll get to you in due time," and they dart away a few inches. She proceeds to tap the top of his head with her wand, causing him to blink.

Harry watches the orbs of Hermione's eyes move underneath her shut eyelids. Suddenly, his friend's breath catches, and her contracted pupils focus on him. "Merlin, Harry! What happened to you?"

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," he drawls.

"Harry, the protective layers of your soul and magic have been severely weakened. You are much more vulnerable to metaphysical attacks such as Legilimens and Imperius."

"I-Is it permanent?"

"No. With time, your magic will repair them." Hermione looks at Harry aghast. "Did Ginny do this?"

Harry can't help but laugh. "No." More seriously, he muses, "It must have been the dark wizard I had a run-in with while I was on duty the other day. When he put his hand on my chest, it was the most agonizing pain I've ever felt, even worse than the Cruciatus." Grinding his teeth, he grits out, "He got away."

"You're lucky he didn't kill you, Harry," Hermione admonishes.

Rubbing a cufflink between his fingers, Harry asks, "Will the damage affect the treatment Head Auror Robards spoke about?"

Hermione hums in thought. "No, it shouldn't."

Sighing in relief, Harry says, "Good. What is the treatment exactly? "

"First, you'll be administered a potion called the Detoxify Draught. For one month, it'll remove all inclination to drink alcoholic beverages."

"Draught? Does it have alcohol in it?" Harry asks perplexed.

"Yes. Fermentation is the final step in brewing the potion. Paradoxical though it may be; it works," she quirks.

After casting a summoning spell, a crystal bottle holding a milky-white substance, which swirls and writhes upon itself, smacks into Hermione's open palm.

The Potions Mistress transfers the concoction into Harry's possession and begins to recite, "The possible side effects are: nausea, mood swings, delayed reflexes, extreme agitation or anxiety, and insomnia, which may be followed by oversleeping—"

"So basically, it's gonna give me a killer hangover."

"Basically," Hermione agrees. "Other rarer side effects to be aware of are hallucinations, increase in appetite, loss of consciousness—"

"Loss of consciousness," Harry says growing upset. "I flew Jinn here, trying to conserve my magical credits. I don't want to apparate if I can help it." He dejectedly mumbles, "I guess I'll have to take the Knight Bus home?"

Hermione taps the glass bottle with her nail. "The potion only activates when the base inactive ingredient vacates the body. As long as you don't urinate until you return home, you'll be fine," She reassures.

A loud whirl of green flames bursts from Hermione's fireplace and a purple blur hurtles towards her, stopping an inch away between her eyes.

"I'm sorry Harry. I have to take this."

Harry hears his friend growl in anger after she reads the message. "Uh, that, that loathsome pompous toad."

"Altancalyx, again." Harry deduces.

"He's a brilliant Healer and shows genuine concern for his patients, but," she screams and balls up the note. "I'm surprised the antediluvian git doesn't have me prancing around in a maid outfit and serving him tea."

"You know I offered to put in a word for you—"

"Harry, I don't want the shadow of nepotism clouding any future position. I want to earn it, no matter how long it takes. I realize that means needing twice the amount of qualifications to compete with purebloods for the same work. I don't _want_ to be a Healer, but for right now, it's a means to an end. It pays the bills."

"Sorry. I'm sure you hear it enough from Mum…I mean Mrs. Weasley."

"Yes," she sighs in amused indignation. "I love Ron, but did he have to propose so soon after the war—and did I have to say 'yes'?" Her cheeks quiver and eyes twinkle. "We've been engaged now…four, _five_ years already." She shakes her head with amazement.

Placing her hand on Harry's sleeve and catching herself before she begins petting the incredibly soft fabric, Hermione explains in a serious tone, "Harry, you were not just Ginny's husband to Dad and Mum. They are loving parents and saw you as their son years before you married her.

"When two children have a fight, good parents don't abandon one over the other. They continue to love them both and let their offspring figure things out on their own."

Harry covers his friend's hand, squeezes, and smiles affectionately. "Thanks, Hermione."

"Well, my malapropos dictator awaits." She sighs.

Harry's grin widens. "I heard a little birdie announce on the Coliseum message board that a lower management position has opened up in my department…"

"Oh, you!" Hermione playfully slaps Harry's shoulder and her face lights up with a closed mouth smile. "Thank you, for letting me know. Before I forget," the room reflects an intense green flare, and the tip of another flying memo starts incessantly poking the Potions Mistress' shoulder, "don't take _any_ other potions for thirty days. Salves and lotions are fine since they don't require ingestion to be effective. Also," Hermione grabs the paper airplane and crushes it in her hand, "even though the desire to drink will be gone, the potion can't stop you from doing it anyway. Don't. Be sure not to consume _any_ alcohol—"

"I understand," Harry interrupts not wishing to take up anymore of Hermione's limited time. "No potions. No alcohol. I'll floo call you later if something comes up."

Toasting the air, Harry says, "Bottoms up. Cheers."

The potion feels like a large marble going down his throat. When the thick liquid reaches his stomach, a queasy sensation causes him to slightly bend over and clench his arms over his middle.

"Most of the symptoms should be gone within twenty-four hours." She takes the empty bottle from Harry's hand. "Go home and rest," Hermione orders, "and let the worst of the initial side effects pass."

Staring straight into Harry's eyes, she stresses, "But tomorrow," she hands him a business card, "you're to schedule an appointment with Mind Healer Simon Rutten. He's an acquaintance of mine and will fit you in. Your alcoholism was only a symptom, Harry. Promise me, you won't attempt to tackle your condition on your own again. Promise me."

Glancing down at the jet-black piece of cardstock with the professional title, Simon R. Rutten, M.H., printed in silver ink, Harry responds, "I promise."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine **

Catching up on Wizarding news, Harry peruses the Daily Prophet. He can't help but browse the society page. A large picture shows the Malfoy family, Draco front-and-center smiling demurely, exiting the Grand Merlin Theatre after Celestina Warbeck's debut performance of her latest—and much anticipated—tour.

Harry savors another taste of his chamomile tea; the sweet, grassy flavored liquid warming his tongue and further calming his stomach.

As a long yawn hums from his wide-opened jaw, the knocker on the front entrance beats rapidly like a nervously tapping foot. Harry's head whips in the direction of the unwelcome interruption.

Taking a quick sip from his bone-white china cup, Harry scoots his chair back and tosses the haphazardly folded newspaper onto the dining room table.

When the silver sculpture in the shape of twisting snakes hammers against the metal plate on the door once more, Harry shouts, "Coming!"

The patter of rain reaches Harry's ears before he fully open the door. Glimpsing the visitor, he unconsciously takes a step back.

"Hiya Harry," Ron weakly grins his usual crooked smile and runs his fingers through his wet, scarlet hair.

"Are you sure you should be visiting me?" Harry asks.

Ron's lips screw into a grimace and he shrugs. "Harry, can I come in or are you gonna leave me out here to drown."

Hesitating for only a few ticks of the longcase clock, Harry exhales in defeat and invites his ex-brother-in-law into his home with an out-stretched arm.

As the door thumps shut, Harry calls, "Kreacher."

The two wizards feel a tepid breeze when the house-elf's sudden appearance mixes the cold, damp outdoor air with the warm indoor air, smelling of lamp oil and burning wood logs.

"Master be needing Kreacher?" The elf asks.

Recognizing Harry's old friend, Kreacher shakes his head in disgust and mutters, "Another Weasley blood-traitor cavorting about…what would the mistress say," and the ancient bent figure peeks down the hall towards Walburga's portrait.

Harry clears his throat to get the house-elf's attention and requests, "Could you move the tea service to the sitting area in the drawing room, please."

Bowing in assent, the elf snaps his fingers, glowers at Ron, and then mumbles as he shuffles away.

The two old friends climb the ostentatious staircase in silence and enter the dimly lit drawing room; a flash of lightning streaking across the horizon through the windows. Harry sits down on a silk-upholstered sofa near the fireplace and begins serving tea on an inlaid Victorian coffee table.

A soft rumble of thunder reverberates throughout the room and into their bones. The two men turn toward each other, from opposite sides of the stiff-cushioned furniture piece, saying each other's names at the same time, causing both to laugh nervously.

Harry offers, "You first."

The ex-Auror, still wearing his standard magenta robes, indicating that he recently finished his shift at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, gulps. Grabbing his tea, Ron guzzles it down and suddenly attempts to suppress a round of strong coughs.

"Ron?" Harry asks in concern and begins whacking his friend's back.

"Sorry." Ron roughly whispers and waves his hand at Harry, wanting his friend to stop striking him between the shoulder blades. The red-head grabs a napkin to wipe his mouth. Continuing to avoid Harry's gaze, Ron watches as his index finger repeatedly follows the rim of the porcelain cup, only random pops from the crackling fire disturbing the silence.

"So," Ron finally says, "it's truly over then?"

"Yeah." Harry answers, wondering if his old schoolmate is divining anything from the tea leaves at the bottom of his empty cup.

Ron's large hand plops the delicate china back onto the silver service tray with a sharp tap.

"You know I'd support you no matter what," Ron hesitantly says, twisting the cloth napkin in his lap with his hands, "right?" He finally focuses his bright blue eyes on his fellow Gryffindor.

Harry begins to feel his eyes water at his friend's reassuring words and his lids slide close in relief.

Ron continues to speak. "When I left the Ministry and our partnership, it was best for everyone's sake, but now…"

Harry senses body heat and the tang of pumpkin before soft full lips touch his own.

Eyes bulging and heart erratically fluttering, Harry pulls away and stutters, "W-What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, the ginger leans in and nuzzles the hollow between Harry's ear and collarbone. Ron lightly nibbles, and then sucks hard, massaging his tongue into his best friend's taunt skin. Harry stifles a moan and his hands push against his friend's chest; his lack of control during Ginny's rape coming to mind.

As Ron quickly unzips his ex-brother-in-law's pants, Harry shouts, "Have you gone mad! W-What about Hermione?"

Harry gasps when Ron's hot palm wraps around his semi-hard member and lightly squeezes.

Continuing to stroke Harry, Ron explains, "I love Hermione, but we've been engaged for ages now, and it doesn't look like she wants to get married anytime soon."

The auburn-haired man teases, "What's wrong, Harry?" Ron's thumb spirals around the smooth, dusky pink head of his friend's cock. "Haven't you ever wondered?" Ron peers earnestly into Harry's eyes. "I want to try this. I want _us_ to give it a real go."

Panting hard, Harry watches as Ron positions his mouth and starts lowering himself towards Harry's dripping rod.

Why am I not stopping this? This can't be happening. It can't _be_!

Pitch-black darkness.

As Harry's lone body uncontrollably shakes on the bed, a dribble of sweat slides across Harry's neck.

"What the bloody fuck was that!" he hisses. Ron was his brother in all ways except for blood. Harry had _no_ attraction to him. What. So. Ever.

He groans as his pounding headache intensifies; his head feeling like his brain is about to leak out of his ears. After fumbling to light his wand, Harry stumbles into the drawing room, dry-heaving from nausea. He manages to start a floo call to Hermione before realizing he's stark naked and sporting a large boner. Cursing, Harry scurries back into the bedroom, grabs a blanket, and wraps it around his waist.

"Hello? Hello? Anyone there?" Ron demands. "George, if it's you—this is _not_ funny."

Hearing his friend's voice, Harry blanches. Why did _he_ have to answer? Harry berates his stubborn cock still standing at attention. Merlin's bollocks! _Why_ is he hard? He feels so bloody miserable.

Slowly creeping towards the sickening-green flames, Harry stutters, "I-Is Hermione there?"

"Harry?" Ron's head jolts as if it's been struck. Taking in Harry's haggard, wide-eyed appearance, he frowns and asks, "Is…everything alright, mate?"

Swallowing his queasiness and avoiding Ron's confused expression, Harry confirms, "Yeah, I just need to speak to her."

Ron gives a slow nod and then disappears. Harry hears a rustle, soft whispering, and the metal squeaking of a box-spring mattress.

Hermione kneels in front of the hearth and comes into view.

Harry watches as Ron covers Hermione's figure, clad in only a sheer nightie, with a quilt. She smiles at her fiancé in thanks and wraps the blanket more securely around her body.

Frowning, the bushy haired woman croaks, "Harry, it's three in the morning—"

Harry whispers, "I had a really, _really_ disturbing dream and…and it was so real."

Rubbing an eye and picking up on Harry's desire for privacy, Hermione groggily asks in a lowered voice, "Didn't I say vivid dreams were a side effect of the draught?"

Harry thinks a moment, face contorting from the throbbing pain in his skull and cock, and then shakes his head. "No, I don't…believe so."

"Oh," Hermione grimaces, "Sorry." She covers a big audible yawn with her hand. "Harry, unfortunately you'll have to live with any side effects that occur, including possible vivid nightmares—"

"But it wasn't exactly a-a nightmare. Disconcerting as hell, it was more...stimulating…" Harry's voice trails off.

"Stimulating… Oh. Oh!" As Harry tries to shush her and then covers his face with his hands, Hermione snorts and can't help but glance down at Harry's chiseled body.

"I'm quite certain I mentioned the rarer side effect of a possible increase in appetite—that includes _all_ appetites. I believe you know how to remedy certain issues if they…arise"

Observing Harry's mortified expression, she winces. "I'm sorry; I'd give you a Dreamless Sleep potion and any number of other potions if it weren't possibly dangerous. It's been what…fourteen hours since you ingested the draught. Another ten or so and you should start feeling more like yourself again."

"But—"

Hermione seriously asks, "Do you have the urge to harm yourself or others?"

Harry scowls, "No."

"Feelings of grandeur or invincibility?"

Again he shakes his head "no".

"Then you'll be fine. Be sure to visit the Mind Healer later today. I appreciate you calling me. I'd rather you call than not. Do you have any other questions or concerns, Harry?"

"No," Harry smiles weakly. "Thanks, Hermione."

She returns his smile. "Think nothing of it." Hermione then says, "Just a sec," and her head withdraws for a moment. When she reemerges, her face is beaming. "Ron wants you to know that you'll always be more than just a brother—."

Harry, not bothering with modesty, stands and rushes to the toilet, losing his stomach. Climbing back to his feet and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he notices he feels much better until he sees the still swollen appendage protruding from his body. Sighing in dismay, he flips on a gold faucet, which looks like a coiled gaping serpent; its tail being the lever.

After rinsing out his mouth, Harry spots a dish of mints on the bathroom countertop and habitually pops one in. He's about to start chewing, when he realizes that the tablet is still technically a potion and quickly spits it out. Instead, he locates a new lime-colored toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

While the soft bristles scrub his teeth and tongue, Harry contemplates going back to bed. As he bends over to spit, the tip of his sensitive cock glides against the cool dark cabinets, causing him to grit his teeth. Right now, he couldn't go back to sleep even if he wanted to.

Still biting down on green plastic, Harry grips his hard flesh and slides his fingers along its length. Closing his eyes, the image of his mouth being filled with Malfoy's silky member, instead of an ordinary toothbrush, flashes across his mind. The blond wizard moaning as he—

Harry is caught by surprise as his balls tighten and thick white streams of come shoot onto the mirror. His other hand grabs the edge of the counter keeping himself from buckling onto the marble-tiled floor.

Breathing hard, Harry straightens and grabs a towel to wipe off the framed reflective surface. He thanks Merlin when his cock finally starts to soften. Harry finishes brushing his teeth, splashes some cold water on his face, and turns off the spout.

Walking into the bedroom and crossing towards the threshold, Harry peeks into the drawing room. The fireplace is dead. Hermione had ended the call.

Harry takes a few steps to the left, turns on the oil lamp sitting on his nightstand, and then habitually holsters his wand. Below the gilded light source lies Snape's lily decorated chest. He slides a finger over the length of its wood surface. Might as well.

Once his thumb cracks open the lid, a roaring burst of magic wallops Harry in the chest, making him collapse hard onto his knees. The box slips from his hands and slams onto the floor, scattering its contents. Snape's wand skitters under the bed while the sphere hits the rug with a muffled thud.

With the lingering scent of lavender and black pepper in the air, Harry yells, "Fucking twonker!" and rubs the aching area over his heart. Only _Snape_ would put a bloody protective curse on a gift. Merlin knows; it probably would have killed anyone else who tried to open it.

Harry rightens the overturned chest. Crawling onto his stomach, he stretches his arm and grabs the birch rod underneath the bed frame. As soon as his fingers grip the handle, warm tingles, like fingernails lightly touching, sweep up his arm and he gasps. Kneeling on the ground, Harry studies Snape's wand. It's covered in a thick, black, glossy lacquer, which makes it appear as if it were hewn from solid obsidian, instead of from common birch. Ancient runes carved into the handle provide the necessary grip for the sleek wooden surface to be functional during duels. It's beautiful. Elegant.

He gently sets his former professor's wand back in the chest. Twisting his torso, Harry wraps his palm around the Revoco Sphere. The orb resembles a snitch but larger. Instead of having silver wings, lines of intricate-silver-inlay crisscross the metal. One side is sliced off; probably to stop it from rolling about. All the swirls of symbols flow onto the flattened side and coalesce into three equidistant vortexes. Etched in the middle of the whorls is the direction: Hold on this side.

Following George's instructions, Harry situates his right palm and states his full name. "Harry James Potter."

"Bloody hell!" Harry feels sharp stabbing pains and jerks his hand. The sudden motion causes him to lose his hold on the sphere, and it clucks into the chest on the floor by his bent knees.

Three tiny beads of blood begin to ooze from his punctured palm. Harry quickly ensures Snape's wand didn't sustain any damage; cold prickles slithering up his arm from the contact. Satisfied, he returns it to the box. Harry lifts the orb and finding nothing needle-like, gingerly repositions his hand.

His vision starts to go black, and suddenly, he feels like he's zooming down a deep, enclosed well of warm water. Before Harry can instinctually gasp, a bright curved chamber materializes around him, making him feel like he's in the center of a round white party lantern. He looks down in bewilderment and sees that the Revoco Sphere has travelled with him; it still gripped tightly in his dominant hand.

An instant later, Harry finds himself standing before Snape; the flickering illumination from torches reflects off shiny objects within the windowless room. His former professor sits behind an imposing desk in the old Potions office.

Harry startles when he hears Snape say, "Mr. Potter, it seems that the fates truly hate me, and even though you are recklessness personified, I have met my demise…before…you.

As the Potions Master's steady gaze doesn't quite land on Harry, he continues, "I'm sure you must be wondering," the professor arches an eyebrow, "_why_," he intones, "I have bequeathed you my wand and the sphere which your _mind_ has now created a facsimile of." Harry's fist clenches around the sphere.

Snape pauses a moment, purses his thin lips, and folds his hands before resuming. "Your mother, Lily, and I were childhood friends, and I am well aware that you will never know her." _Thanks for the reminder._

"I am giving you all that I have of her. The core of her wand and mine were linked. Our magic was like shadow and light—different—but connected. Using my wand will be the closest you ever get to experiencing her magic.

"Within this," Snape raises a golden orb, identical to the one resting in Harry's hand, "I've saved every, single, memory I have of Lily. Pleasant and…unpleasant, they are _all_ there. Do with them as you wish."

The scene alters, and the corpse of his mother lies on his nursery floor. Harry watches as Snape crumbles to his knees.

"No. No! Stop!" Harry shouts, and quickly turns around, closing his eyes. _Damn you Snape!_

Sounds of the Potions Master's grief abruptly halt, and Harry discovers himself once again in the blank circular room. While Harry stands idly for an undeterminable amount of time, he surmises, based on the last two recollections, the sphere is showing memories in reverse chronological order. _There must be a way to navigate through them._

Not sure what to do next, Harry starts shouting, "On! Search! Recall..." After trying every word he could think of, he emits a closed-mouth growl. Harry tries a different approach. "Hello? I need help—"

Snape, as a younger version of himself, wearing his usual dark teaching robes, appears in the stark space and monotones, "'Help' requested."

"Snape?"

"Default name changed from Severus to Snape."

After hearing the wizard's first name, Harry's mind momentarily wanders. The Potions Master's body shimmers, and his clothes vanish. The image before him utters, "Default image adjusted."

Harry's eyes widen and he exclaims, "Shite!"

"Default name changed from Snape to Shite."

Harry continues to gape until he realizes what the sphere just did. Taking in Snape's…remarkable appearance, he tries to control his snickers, but then mutters, "Shite," to himself, and a loud rolling guffaw explodes from his throat. He bends over, arms folded across his middle, and laughs until tears are streaming down his face.

Stomach sore and still chuckling, Harry clears his throat and manages to reverse Snape's actions. During the process, Harry also confronted the visages of others until he asked the right question and learnt how to 'Save' a modification. Although, once the Potions Master was reinstated, Harry was…very tempted to keep Snape's fit-duelist body unencumbered by his black billowy robes. However, after finding that his hand went through the apparition when he tried to touch it, chose not to.

Backing away a few paces, Harry studies the conjured Snape. The Potions Master stands completely still; his chest unmoving and his eyes unblinking. _No. This hollow _thing_, wearing Snape's features, doesn't come close to the real man I barely got to know. That man had a quiet passion. A soul. Not to mention a pulse._

Extending his arm and presenting the orb, Harry inquires, "How do I use this?"

He, no, _it_ drones, "State the default name of the user-interface, followed by the prompt 'Find,' 'Store,' or 'Delete.' After user-interface confirmation, ask or recall objective."

"When a memory starts, is there anything else I should know?'

"Once recollection has commenced, you may navigate with commands: 'Stop,' 'Freeze,' 'Play,' and 'Reverse.' The preferred speed of play will be automatically detected."

"Alright," Harry drawls, his mind deciphering all the information he just heard, and then huffs. _I'm sure the git decided against leaving the bloody directions with the orb so he would always have something the chuckle about across the veil. _

Giving it a go, Harry clearly enunciates, "Snape. Find," and can't help but grin at his impudent order.

A momentary pause and the Snape-user-interface responds, "Acknowledged."

_What do I want to see?_ Harry makes up his mind and articulates, "Every memory of my mother…happy."

Like a Muggle film, Snape and his mother's friendship unfolds before him, starting with how they first met. Memory after memory after memory plays out; the speed of each spontaneously determined by Harry's interest.

A new recollection catches Harry's attention. It looks familiar…

His Mum, still a young girl, sports a navy pea coat and drowns in warm layers of clothing. With a wide smile, she cajoles, "It's my ninth birthday so _I'm_ the sun and you're the night sky, Sev." Then she playfully says, "The sun _always_ catches the night?"

Grinning, Snape darts away, puffs of breaths visible. They run around on the snow-covered ground and Harry hears the click of a camera behind him. Harry remembers. This is the scene that was in the photo he released after Snape's funeral service.

Lily catches the young boy, and Snape's eyes grow as she hugs his slight figure.

"Do you surrender?" she teases.

Snape's lips twitch and with a seriousness that belies the twinkle in his eyes, he whispers, "Never."

Mum places a chaste kiss on his forehead, and a huge smile transforms the boy's face.

Harry quickly commands, "Freeze."

He stares at his Mum's motionless sweet face, angelic in its affection. In being able to view his mother's happiness, Harry has also been able to view Snape's. The bitter man, who was Tom's eager lover, was the only man he personally knew. Harry learned, too late, that the Potions Master was the epitome of self-sacrificing and brave. The remembrances of his Mum and Snape soothe wounds Harry hadn't known existed. It was like, after having given up all hope, finding something which had been long lost.

After Harry witnesses roughly another year of their mutual experiences, he sees his mother come to an abrupt halt in front of a bakery, causing Snape to bump into her.

Snape wears a much too thin ratty coat and a pink scarf which judging by his mother's unadorned neck was lent to him by her.

His mother ogles the displayed sweets, pressing her nose against the window to get a better view. Snape pulls her a few steps away from the clear barrier so the shop owner doesn't come out and scold her for smudging the glass.

"The treacle tart looks divine," Lily smiles. "Don't you think, Sev?"

"Lily, must we play this game?" The boy answers her question with another question. "We should be heading to the library."

"If you could pick anything you wanted," she continues, pretending not to hear his protest, "which would it be?"

Snape crosses his arms.

"Oh, come on," she moans. "Don't be such a spoilsport; it's your birthday, after all."

Sighing in defeat he studies every confection with a keen eye, "The dark chocolate cake."

"Deep complex flavors but not too sweet," she mumbles to herself, focusing her gaze on his preference. "Yes. If you were a cake, that's what you would be."

Snape mutters to himself and tugs on her arm.

Suddenly, the rich dessert appears a foot off the ground in front of Lily and plops onto the sidewalk.

Harry's Mum and Snape gasp and stare. Quickly, Lily picks up the cumbersome cake and starts running. Hardly containing their laughter, they race away until their lungs burn. Collapsing onto a public bench, Lily gently settles the decadent treat between them.

Once she catches her breath, she beams at her friend and says, "Happy Birthday, Sev."

Eyes crinkling with mischievous delight, Snape whispers, "Happy burglary.

With the hint of a smile on her lips, Lily scoops a handful of cake into her palm and says, "Cheers." Snape follows her lead, and they both stuff their stomachs, eyes closing in bliss with every bite.

More than another year passes before Harry. The sky is a clear robin's egg blue. A cool gust swirls around blades of grass and wildflowers on a peaceful hill.

Lily, holding a cupcake, approaches Snape, sitting at the foot of a willow tree.

"You didn't need to bring me—"

"It's not charity, Sev; it's in celebration since we'll be leaving for Hogwart's tomorrow morning."

The pale boy squeezes his arms around his bent legs against his chest. "I'm eager to depart this accursed rathole," glancing away from his best friend, "but I'm also concerned."

She takes the spot besides him, rests her hand on his arm, and asks, "What are you worried about?"

"Us." He looks away.

"Us?" Lily frowns.

"What if we're separated? Placed in different houses?"

She inhales deeply. "If we are," Lily slowly says, "it will be no different than now." She grins. "If I'm not mistaken, at the moment, we don't even share the same roof." She sets down the cupcake and grabs his hand.

Absentmindedly tracing the lines of his palm, "You're my closest friend, Sev," she leans her head against his shoulder. "You know me better than anyone. I can be myself around you."

As a light breeze swings the curtain of branches, Snape turns and admires her stunning eyes. "I hope we can be together always."

Her deep green irises sparkle and Lily pecks his cheek.

Harry's heart cries for the Potions Master, as he watches his mother's obliviousness year after year. It's clear to everyone but Lily that Snape had fallen in love with her.

But during their fourth year, Harry starts seeing subtle changes in his Mum's behavior. Lingering touches such as when she clears Snape's hair from his face, when she hands him a potion ingredient, and when she adjusts a scarf around his neck.

His mother's birthday arrives once more, her fifteenth.

The speed of Harry's observations returns to normal when he sees that they are in a secluded alcove in Hogwart's. Snape clears his throat and offers her a small cauldron; inside is miniature treacle tart.

"I hope it's…acceptable," he says avoiding her gaze.

She reaches out a finger to tilt up his head. Once his dark eyes can't escape her regard, she says, "Sev, you know your cooking is simply sublime."

"I wanted to create something grander, but of late, I've been busy with my classmates.

She scowls. "I wish you wouldn't spend so much time with _them_."

Severus sighs.

"I've missed you, Sev. And they're a bad lot." Her finger slid up his check, "I'm afraid you'll get hurt."

The Slytherin's lids shut. "You needn't worry, Lily."

Her back straightens. "It's my job to worry." Her lips lift into a sly grin, "Who else would insure you don't accept a dare from Avery or Wilkes to…to go running around the Great Lake naked, scaring the Merfolk."

Snape cocks an eyebrow.

"Well," Lily falters, "you can be quite…imposing.

The reserved teen boy replies to her remark with a short, closed-mouth hum.

Severus pulls out a small black candle from his robes and sticks it in the middle of the golden syrup. "I apologize; it was all I could find," he mumbles. "Would you like me to change the color?"

Looking at his dark features, she assures, "No. It's a perfectly lovely color, Sev."

He turns away, his hair whipping about his shoulders, and lights the wick with his wand. "You may make your obligatory wish."

As the wax melts, Harry's Mum says, "I want you to have it."

"Lily…" The young man starts.

"No, it's my birthday and that's what I want. I've had plenty of wishes."

Snape rolls his eyes, nods his head, thinks a second, and blows out the little flame.

Harry's jaw drops when he sees his Mum lean in and kiss Snape on the lips.

Snape's face is stricken with shock.

"Are you okay?" Lily asks cupping his cheek.

"H-Have you been studying Legilimency?," the Slytherin stammers.

"What? she says confused. "No. Why?"

The Slytherin touches his lips and Lily understands.

"I told you wishes weren't frivolous," she grins.

Breaking the tension, they both awkwardly laugh, and Snape's shaking hand retrieves a fork for each of them and they tuck in to the sticky confection.

Time moves forward. Another school year is about to end.

Harry takes a step back when he sees Snape playing the piano for his mother. Her eyes are closed, and her head sways to the melody. Most of the room is covered in a thick layer of dust; a few rusty music stands lay like skeletal bodies on the floor.

Eyes shining, Lily says, "I can't believe you never told me. You play so beautifully, Sev."

Continuing to play the haunting melancholy song, he explains, "Mother used to play. If she had never met Tobias," he spits, "she could have one day performed at the Grand Merlin Theatre. She still had hope until he broke her fingers.

"This place," he takes in the dim chamber, "has been _my_ refuge. But I wanted to share it with you before the term ended." He turns away from her scrutiny.

Lily encourages him to stand from the bench and guides his hands around her small waist. She wraps her hands around his neck, rests her ear over his heart, then begins to hum the tune he had been playing.

Harry circles them studying Snape's expression; it's pained and that's when Harry realizes Snape could have had his Mum if he wanted but was seduced by the Dark Arts, power, and Tom himself instead. Snape was like oil and his mother like water. When one coats the other there is a beauty in its opalescent—but it's toxic.

Harry continues watching every snippet of memory he can until late into the night, learning more than he ever thought possible. He gets to know not only his mother but also the complicated man who was Severus Snape. His kindness and dry humor. His talents and dreams. His mistakes and vulnerabilities.

Harry's heart fills with warmth and thanks, thinking of what Sna…Severus had given him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

Stifled weeping.

Harry eyes fly open, a sudden pang striking his heart. The shadowed, hunter-green canopy of his bed looms over his blanketed body. Another pulse of pain. Gritting his teeth and placing a warm palm to his chest, Harry scoots into a sitting position. He lights the patinaed lamp on his nightstand, and the shadows on every wall grow taller and more solid. The carved snakes on his bed posts seem to slither around fluttering flower petals as the lamp flame undulates on its oil-soaked wick.

Sweeping his eyes across the dim bedroom, Harry catches sight of a dark figure tucked low into a corner. A muffled sniff sounds from the indistinguishable form.

Harry, bare except for his ankle holster, creeps out of bed. Unsheathing his wand, he cautiously approaches the huddled intruder, and in a clear voice, demands, "Who are you?"

Sharp pale features lift from cradled arms.

Harry gasps. "Professor Snape?" he whispers in amazement.

A rough baritone rasps in confusion. "You can see me?"

Harry slowly bends down, balancing his weight on his two hands. Brow furrowing, the younger wizard inquires, "What's wrong? How…," he looks around his bedroom, "are you _here_?"

The Potions Master leans his head forward until he's only a few inches away from Harry's face, and the two wizards can share each other's breaths. Snape's soft, crow-colored robes, blending in with the black hair on either side of his face, creep forward with his movement and touch Harry's fingertips. A flash of recognition crosses black, fathomless eyes, and from thin, deep-crimson lips, he exhales, "Harry, you should know—death doesn't mean the end."

_He would never call me Harry. _

"This is another dream," Harry states without hesitation, staring at the wet streaks on his former professor's face. _He looked the same way when he cried for Mum. Must be where I got this from._

Looking at the grown man in wonder, Snape lifts a hand, combing his fingers through strands of Harry's long hair and then glides his thumb down a stubbled cheek.

Harry closes his eyes for a second as the heat from the Potions Master's touch sinks into his skin then asks, "Why are you doing that?"

Lids becoming heavy, Snape's calculating gaze looks deep into clear, green pools before saying, "Because. I. Must."

The Potions Master's fingers slowly caress down Harry's neck, shoulder, and arm, causing the young wizard's skin to breakout in gooseflesh. "Please. Please don't." Harry pleads and moves away, sitting on his haunches. "Even if this is only a dream, I would rather not be touched."

Snape, taking in Harry's naked body and hardening cock, suggests, "Then. Touch. Me." He quickly seizes Harry's empty hand and places it over his quickening heart. "This is your dream, Harry. Control it—me—however you wish."

Nose flaring and eyes dilating, so many mixed memories pummel Harry's mind. Snape as his childhood tormentor. Severus as his mother's dear friend. The Half-Blood Prince as Voldemort's submissive lover…always coming hardest when he knew Harry was with them and then treating him all the harsher for it the following day.

Harry's eyes narrow, and with a thought, the swaths of dark fabric covering Snape's strong body unbutton and fall from his shoulders to pool low around his hips.

The former Death Eater's eyes widen. As he rises unblinkingly to his feet, posture firm and straight, his garment slides over his shapely rear and down his legs, caging his feet still shod in shiny leather shoes.

The two wizards take in each other's lack of dress. Harry notices that he is a tad taller than the formidable man standing before him. It makes sense. Due to a lack of proper nutrition during Harry's youth, he is physically stunted. From Snape's memories of Harry's father James bullying him, he knows that the Gryffindor towered over the young Slytherin. Harry probably would have grown to be just as tall if not taller than his own father if he had been fed properly. He wasn't as lanky as the Weasleys, but he was far from short.

As he enjoys his newfound superior height and holsters his wand, Harry summons a plain-high-backed-wooden chair behind the Potions Master with only a wish. The lustful younger wizard then pushes Snape down into it. Both of their breaths hitch as an electric current connects them for a moment. When Harry sets a palm on each of the Potions Master's knees, splaying them wide, a pleasurable warmth fills the younger man's chest but fades as soon as Harry lifts his hands.

Breathless, Harry orders, "Professor, put your hands behind the back of your chair."

Snape licks his lips and then opens his mouth as if he's going to speak but instead, closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and obeys. Blood-red ribbons materialize around the Potions Master's wrists and ankles. The silk winds upwards, coiling around his arms and calves, tightly securing his limbs to hard sections of wood, making Snape's chest jut out invitingly.

Harry smiles as he methodically unlaces Snape's shoes, careful not to make contact with his skin. Once the Slytherin is completely stripped, the younger wizard focuses on the older man's intense gaze as he kneels between his thighs.

"Do you want me to touch you?" Harry asks not breaking eye contact.

"Yes." Snape drawls out, narrowing his eyes warily.

"Beg me to touch you."

"I don't beg," the arrogant man spits, more like his acerbic-old-self.

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face. "I know, not even when you faced death. But for me…you will."

Snape presses his lips together and glares.

Harry's eyebrows rise; shrugging his shoulders, he says, "Fine," then starts to stand. _For a dream, the git's as stubborn as ever!_

"Wait!" The Potions Master growls, and after a moment of silence mutters, "Please."

"Please, what? What should I do next?"

"How the devil should I know," Snape speaks with derision. "It's your bloody dream, Potter.

Harry grins. "Torture it is," he sings, and the whites around the secured man's eyes grow large.

Gliding the tip of his index finger along the outside border of a long scar located on Snape's inner thigh, Harry chuckles when the stiff cock pointing at his chest nods in encouragement. Harry lowers his head and traces the same old mark with his tongue, prompting the Potions Master's thigh muscle to tense.

Slowly the younger wizard explores his way up Snape's body, connecting healed silvery wounds with a trail of glistening saliva. Harry teases a bit of flesh near the Slytherin's left nipple and can't help but flick his tongue over the light-pink nub. Snape strains against his bonds; his black orbs gleaming with desperation like an addict in need of another fix.

Harry straddles the Potions Master's lap, their eyelids fluttering shut when their leaking rods rub against each other. Ignoring Snape's silent, proud gaze, pleading for more, Harry nuzzles the wizard's neck and deeply inhales the sweet scent of lavender and black pepper corns. The Potion's Master's neck arches, and Harry can see that one side is completely covered with taut shiny flesh. The younger wizard places a simple kiss on the ravaged skin.

"I never got to say 'thank you,'" Harry whispers in Snape's ear.

The Potions Master smirks. "For what, Mr. Potter? Twisting your young mind with sexual perversions per the Dark Lord's orders, hating you but wanting you, coming so close to stealing your innocence on numerous occasions. I am not, nor have I ever been, a _good_ man."

Harry laughs dryly. "I know. For the most part, you were a right git, but you protected me too. I always wondered what it would have been like if you hadn't died." Bright emerald eyes focus on the Potions Master.

Turning away from Harry's scrutiny, Snape warns, "_Don't_ make me a hero. I did what I thought would garner me the most power. I played both sides and lost. Nothing more."

Recalling the Potions Master's teary eyes, Harry says, "When I first saw you, you seemed remorseful…for something. Were you regretting that you didn't return my mother's affections? Pushed her away?"

"Please," Snape mockingly begs, "cease my torment by discontinuing this banal conversation."

Harry slides his arms around the Slytherin's neck. "I'm glad you decided against being with her…because then I would probably have been _your_ son and never have been able to do this." Harry yanks on the Potions Master's hair, angling his face up and deeply kisses the surprised man.

A small pulse of magic ricochets between the two wizards, and they both moan in pleasure. Snape responds and begins to battle for dominance with the younger wizard's tongue. Harry tugs on the Potions Master's dark locks in warning.

Pulling away, the desire-filled Gryffindor admonishes, "If this is _my_ dream, why aren't you acting the way I want?"

Snape retorts, licking his bruised lips, "This _is_ a dream, but that doesn't mean I'm not real, Mr. Potter."

Harry's pulse starts to hammer in his neck and feels another twinge in his chest. "What are you talking about?"

Sighing, Snape monotonously explains, "When I had to unfortunately murder the Headmaster," Snape raises a brow daring Harry to comment, "the pain was…excruciating. I attributed the agony to having to kill one of the most powerful wizards of all time _and_…the only real father figure I've ever known. I wasn't aware that my heart had _literally_ broken."

Harry slips off Snape's lap and backs away. "A Horcrux. Y-You made a Horcrux."

"Unintentionally, yes," the Potions Master nods. "I've deduced that a piece of my soul must have attached itself to my wand, disallowing me from crossing the veil. Considering I'm…here, my soul shard must have freed itself from my wand once I felt true regret about the Headmaster's death."

"This is the strangest dream…" Harry's voice trails off, shaking his head.

"I. Am. Real. Mr. Potter!" Snape shouts. "When you opened my chest, it seems the magical layers that protect you were weak enough that my soul was able to link itself to your body," the Slytherin mumbles quietly to himself, "among other things." The Potions Master proceeds to state sarcastically, "You really are developing a nasty habit of letting any old wizard play with your…essence."

Breathing heavily, Harry glares at Snape. "Prove it! Prove you're real."

Snape rolls his eyes and sighs. "I'll get to the point. My spirit finally has an anchor—you, but it's tenuous at best. I'm still very weak. To get stronger, I need you. I need to _use_…," the Potions Master admires Harry's bare body, "you."

"Use me…" Harry takes an involuntary step backwards.

The Slytherin raises his brows and roguishly grins, "Or you can use _me_ as you were…previously." Face once again stern, Snape elucidates, "Because of my lack of a physical form, I can generate very little magic. As I'm sure you know by now, the two most common ways to siphon magic is to kill, which if I did would probably steal away what sanity I have left, or engaged in sexual activities, which enables a wizard or witch to share the energy their magical cores naturally emit. Once I have acquired enough strength, I'll be able to prove my existence. But to do so, I need your help."

Harry stares at Snape with a mixture of disbelief and disdain.

Swallowing hard, the Potions Master's Adam's apple dips as his eyes hungrily roam the contours of the young wizard's body. "Harry…I am in great need of your…assistance."

Approaching the bound man, Harry says, "I've had countless erotic dreams about you and have seen you in the throes of passion with countless others." He kneels. "But this is the first time you've said my first name aloud with _that_ look. I'll be honest," Harry slides his palms along Snape's strong thighs. "I don't care about most of what you've said or even if you're real or not." Looking straight into the Potions Master's eyes, the young man says, "I just want to hear you say my name again. Wanting _me._"

Harry lowers his mouth, keeping eye contact, and engulfs Snape's straining member to its base, ignoring the discomfort and forcing his throat to relax. The Potions Master gasps and clenches his fists.

Appreciating the sweet, saltiness of Snape's pre-come, Harry moans at the feel of having this man's thick cock in his mouth. The first wave of Harry's building magic reaches its crest and sweeps over the Potions Master, his head falling back, showing the tight cords of his neck.

With a pop, Harry halts his ministrations.

Writhing on the hard chair from the swelling energy, Snape snarls, "Don't stop!"

Harry lightly slides his tongue around the Potions Master foreskin enjoying every involuntary twitch that Snape makes before saying, "Beg me."

"Why?" asks Snape as he tests the strength of the smooth, shiny bands around his arms; his efforts making them dig deeply into his skin. "Why do you want my supplication?"

A devilish grin spreads slowly across Harry's face. "Because it's sexy as fuck." He laughs at the older wizard's reaction. "Never took you for a prude, Professor." More seriously, the younger wizard says, "I'm no longer the boy you once knew," his eyes darken and become cold, "I kill and curse as needed. I learn and do what I must to get the job done." Harry shrugs, "I once hated you, but now…breaking you would give me no pleasure; fucking you on the other hand…might."

The former Death Eater, his cock so hard that it touches and leaks onto his stomach, stares at Harry, seeming to truly see him for the first time.

Harry sighs and absent-mindedly starts to stroke Snape's erection, now weeping and desperate for attention. "I'm pretty fucked up—have been since _way_ before Tom died. I've just been really good at hiding it and managing to be 'Precious Potter,'" Harry smirks using the mocking name Snape had given him. "My friends were all I had, and I became what they wanted me to be: the poster boy for good. But the problem is—I'm not…very good."

Both wizards moan as another magical wave surges. "I was able to stop myself from torturing Bellatrix in front of them, but when I was in the bathroom alone with Malfoy, and he attacked me, I knew what my intention was when I cursed him. At the time, I was so angry that I wanted him dead." Sighing, the young wizard mumbles, "I'm not completely unhinged. I did feel guilty—later." Harry hisses, "Bloody guilt! Sometimes that's all I _can_ feel."

Struck by a sudden thought, a closed-mouth grin appears on Harry's face, and he softly snorts. "I haven't been this forthcoming with myself in ages." Looking up at the panting Potions Master, Harry laughs, feeling lighter than he has in years, "Guess all I needed was Severus Snape strapped helplessly to a chair for me feel comfortable enough to talk." With a smile still on his lips, the younger wizard says, "Even though you are a figment of my imagination, I should give you my thanks."

Harry stops fisting Snape's cock and stretches his arm so he can trail his fingertips down the Potions Master's flushed cheek. "If you need power…Severus…that is what I'll give you."

Hovering his mouth over the Potions Master's glossy head, Harry delicately swirls his tongue along the ridge of the glans and then follows the vein towards his balls and back up again before commencing to suck in earnest. Severus' back bows when a stronger throb of energy infuses his body as Harry consciously focuses his magic.

The most recent dream of Tom and Severus rushes into Harry's mind. A thrill passes through the younger man's body when he realizes that he can make the Potions Master his, even if it's only for a short time in a dream.

Like with Voldemort, Snape's lids are scrunched shut. Harry pauses to get Snape's attention and chides as Tom did, "Don't close your eyes."

Severus writhes and pants, "I'm not going to be able to last much longer," and he thrust his hips up almost causing Harry to gag.

Locking his gaze with the Potions Master's pleasure-filled eyes, Harry slides his lips off Snape and grins. "_You may have release—when I allow it_."

Keeping his eyes focused on Harry as he replaces his mouth, frown lines form on Severus' forehead. _That phrase sounded familiar. _The Potions Master tries to recall when he had previously heard it. Gasping as more power fills his core, he remembers. _The first time._ _The first time he knew Harry was with them._

Severus smiles at the younger wizard's cleverness and says the next line, "Please…Harry," and moans when his former student takes him to the hilt before replacing his mouth with his hand.

"Severus," the younger man rubs the Potion Master's sensitive flesh in short firm strokes, being sure to stimulate the frenulum, "_begging_. Is. Beneath. You."

A warm playful smile reaches Harry's eyes before he once again tastes Severus' delicious cock. Snape swallows hard when he feels his throbbing member vibrate due to the younger man's triumphant chuckling, having successfully manipulated the Slytherin. At the thought, the older wizard sucks in a quick breath and grits his teeth. _Fuck!_

Harry catches sight of Severus' frantic face. As power once again floods into the Potions Master, Snape's entire body shudders as he comes apart in a torrent, shouting Harry's name.

Groaning, Harry wakes up on his stomach with the phantom flavor of Severus filling his mouth. He sluggishly sits up to find a sticky wet puddle on his sheets and curses. But when he reflects on how he managed to get Snape to lose control in his dream, a huge toothy smile emerges on his face before quickly fading away as a heavy lassitude overwhelms him.

Harry rubs his bloodshot eyes, looking bruised from, large, dark under-eye circles. The sphere, reflecting the rising dawn, rests on a pillow. As Harry starts to reach for the orb to place it back into the opened chest on his nightstand, he hears a loud commotion from downstairs.

After leaving the protection of his warded bed, an icy tingle quickly felt as he passes through the invisible barrier, he makes his way through the blindingly bright drawing room, happy that he no longer feels nauseous. Harry could hear Walburga's portrait, having a fit of rage—nothing unusual. His bare feet continue their slow, rhythmic pace down the dark-stained steps and around a bend—then stop.

"Thief! Thief!" screeches Kreacher, hanging onto the back of a hooded man's affluent, slate-colored robes and hammering the intruder's head with the handle of an umbrella.

Harry unholsters his wand and takes another step when his heel slips causing him to lose his balance. His fingertips stretch towards the banister, but his reflexes are too slow, and he tumbles down the stairwell. On his way down, the hand holding his wand strikes a stair step and the holly stick flies from his grasp.

Smelling of peppermint tea and pumpkin juice, Harry lands hard on toast and broken bone-white china, which slices open his hands.

The unknown assailant yanks the umbrella out of the house-elf's hand, flings it away, and proceeds to pummel the small creature with his red-gloved fist. _Those gloves…_ Harry grabs the first thing he can and with a running start, he conks the back of the intruder's head with a silver serving tray. The man falls onto Walburga's Portrait, ripping off the curtain that usually covers the vile woman, on his way down. Throwing the unconscious elf at Harry, the wizard races towards the front door.

Still fatigued, Harry manages not to drop his loyal, little house-elf and gently sets him on the floor. As he sprints past the grey-haired matriarch, she shrieks, "You filthy disgrace to the House of Black! Get out! Get! Out!"

Harry reaches out a hand in the direction of his wand, and shouts, "_Acci_—"

"_Imperio!_" commands a rich, slightly accented, tenor.

A pleasant heat radiates from Harry's heart stimulating all his nerve endings, including the ones in his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and he slowly collapses next to the overturned troll-leg umbrella stand. Harry looks up at the disguised face, his lids slowly opening and closing like the gills of a suffocating fish.

"Can't resist my charm; I see," smirks the Dark Wizard as he straddles Harry's prone body.

Harry further relaxes, vaguely knowing something wasn't right.

"Thought I'd pay you a visit since our last date was so unceremoniously brief." Warm leather wraps around Harry hard member.

A scream tears through Harry's mind, but the only noise he can make is wheezed panting.

The Dark Wizard unforgivingly wrenches Harry's blood-filled cock. "You destroyed my wand, so I thought I'd take yours." The robed figure presents…a long, glossy onyx wand—Snape's wand.

Harry's body jolts and his awareness flitters back for a moment. _Damn it! I should have bought a bloody safe._

"Ah, ah, uh." Mocks the man as he waggles his index finger. "I've learned my lesson," and the rod hastily disappears from sight.

Gliding a finger around Harry's nipples in a figure eight, the thief licks his lips. "Your magic was _so_…strong," the Dark Wizard's finger starts creeping down towards Harry's heart. "You're exceptional. Would you like to be Scrap's brother? Be our lover?" Harry can't see through the spell placed on the man's face, but by the sound of his voice, he's smiling when he commands, "Say yes."

"Yes," Harry intones automatically. _Sick bastard! Must stop him…_ A salty drop escapes Harry's eye and trickles across his cheekbone as his severely weakened magical core struggles to overcome the mind-controlling curse.

Wind whooshes against the two wizards, cooling the thin wet line on Harry's face and blowing off his tormentor's hood. Harry's pupils contract when he sees a translucent Snape floating behind the Dark Wizard's back. With a wave of a hand, his childhood protector slings the disgusting man from his body and into a display column. A bust of Cygnus Black the First: 1889-1943 topples to the ground.

Walburga cackles merrily for a second before squawking shrilly, "Desecrators of my home! Unclean animals! Depart from here! Leave now!"

The interloper moans, rubbing his head, topped with long, dark hair and starts crawling to his feet. "You little shi—"

Snape, whose black eyes simmer like hatred itself, drifts towards the Dark Wizard. With a boom, the front door whips open, and the man scrambles away, keeping his distance from the menacing apparition. Taking Walburga's advice, he jets around Snape, over Harry, and through the front entrance.

Once the intruder passes the threshold and the door slams shut, Harry gasps and tears begin to freely run down his face. The younger wizard turns his head to watch the spirit of Severus Snape raise an eyebrow. The lips of the Slytherin, his hero once again, upturn slightly in vindication before his image wavers and disappears.

"_Mr. Potter, this detrimental habit of yours really must stop_." echoes between Harry's ears, "_I've exhausted most of my newly gained magic, saving. Your. Life._" A breath caresses down Harry's forehead, ear, and neck, causing him to shiver._ "I'll be waiting for you…in your dreams..._"

Dizzy, sore, and suffering from tunnel-vision, Harry ambles down the corridor, needing to check on Kreacher. As red liquid dribbles down his fingers and drips on to the hallway runner, his bare foot bumps against the head of the ivory marble statue that had rolled down the hall. Harry twists his body attempting to keep his equilibrium but over compensates and falls onto the portrait of Walburga Black. His bleeding hands landing on her ample bosom.

The Black matriarch's eyes look as if they might pop out of her head, and Harry apologizes, removing his hands quicker than Snape taking away house points. Two vermillion smears start to soak into the canvas and disappear. Walburga proceeds to squeak, blink a few times in astonishment, and then slowly grin. "Hello child. Welcome home."

Harry gapes at her, gives his head a little shake, sputtering, "I-I'm sorry. W-What?"

"I know our blood. And I've tasted yours. A Black through-and-through. Not an impure drop." She croons, "Black blood on both sides," then smiles, "just like my sweet Regulus."

"B-But my mother was Muggleborn!" Harry shouts with incredulity.

"So you say, my nephew," she arches her eyebrows, slowly blinks, smiling superiorly. "Go see for yourself. Place your blood on the tapestry and speak the words '_Amour Pur_.'"

Turning away from the batty old woman, Harry discovers the house-elf, rocking himself in a corner.

"Kreacher let the thief take away Master's wand. Kreacher has failed again."

Harry kneels down and nestles the battered elf into his arms. "It's not your fault. It's mine. It's my job as your Master to protect _you_." He lightly strokes the house-elf's forehead. "I don't deserve _your_ forgiveness. I let myself become too weak, and somehow, he must have been able to use me to get past the wards."

Kreacher sniffles and peers at Harry from a swollen eye. "Master will kill him?"

Harry pauses a moment and then nods. "Yes, Kreacher. I will kill him."

The elf lifts up his chin, and his eyes sparkle with satisfaction. "Kreacher will go to Hogwarts for care." Without another word, the house-elf disappears with a snap.

After finding his wand and cleaning up the mess on the stairs, Harry hobbles into the drawing room. He studies the tapestry, damaged by time and the crazy deceased woman downstairs. Taking a deep breath, Harry wipes some of his blood onto the tapestry and follows Walburga's instructions. Like her portrait it absorbs his blood. The heavy sheet of woven fabric shakes itself like a wet dog, then stretches and ripples—and that's it.

Harry views the sad, unchanged artifact. _At least, I can finally fix it._

With a triangular flick of his wrist, Harrys murmurs, "_Reparo."_

Glittering thread slithers within the ancient worn relic, mending every burn mark, tear, or fray. The tree extends down into an area he thought was simply Doxy damage but now realizes was probably made to appear that way.

In a repaired section, Harry finds his name and picture, not surprising, since he learned a few years ago that his paternal Grandmother was Dorea Black, the daughter of Cygnus Black the First, whose broken, ill-landed statue started this asinine endeavor. A life-like depiction of James Potter with his year of life and death connects to Harry's and Dorea's information. However, next to his father's image isn't solely his wife's name. Instead there is a picture of his Mum and below it the name Lilia Black. Harry blinks. Then rapidly blinks again, trying to clear his vision of what must obviously be a twisted trick of his mind. _Nope_. _Still there._ Harry stares at her surname. _My mother _was_ a Black! _

In disbelief, he follows her line. _And her father was…Cygnus Black: 1938-1979_. _The same man whose bedroom I now call my own. No wonder his clothes fit me so well. He's my…grandfather. _Harry further examines the tree. _My grandfather was also…my cousin through Cygnus the First, who was the latest Cygnus' great-grandfather. Weird. Cygnus Black the First is both my great _and _great-great-grandfather. Everyone always said that Purebloods interbred, but they _really_ interbred._

Following his grandfather's branch with his finger, Harry scans the miniature portraits of the man's other children: Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa. _My…aunts._ He touches a flat image of sharp cheekbones and blond hair, wishing his fingers could enjoy the real thing. _Draco._ Looking further down, a soft smile pulls his lips when he sees Teddy's little face. _Family. I have a real family of my own._ He taps Bellatrix's photo with the tip of his wand in contemplation. "Why not?" he says aloud to himself. "It _is_ a family tradition." Her picture flares leaving a round char mark; bits of ash drifting to the floor.

Biting his lip, Harry realizes that Druella Rosier was the mother of all his aunts, but no one is listed as Lily…Lilia's mother. Since the tapestry only shows spouses, that indicates Cygnus was never married to her. _Maybe Walburga was wrong about me being a Pureblood. Maybe Cygnus had an affair with a Muggle or Halfblood._ After that thought, Harry unfortunately suffers a rare side effect of the draught and without preamble loses consciousness.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

Lifting his head from the hardwood floor, Harry groans and moves his stiff jaw from side-to-side. Brows scrunched and eyes firmly shut, he rises to his knees. As Harry uses the wall to regain his footing, the rigid texture of the Black Family tapestry scratches his sore palms.

"Back so soon?"

Harry's upper body twists, and he glances over his shoulder to see Snape, once again donned in his overbearing teaching robes, lounging on one of the settees near an unlit fireplace. Exhaling a relieved sigh, the younger man's chiseled muscles relax, and he turns back towards the wall.

"I think I passed out," says Harry with a muted voice, most of it absorbed by the draped wall in front of him. Harry steps back to get a broader view of the illustrated family tree and with a huff, murmurs, "Perhaps from shock."

A soft whoosh signals the Potions Master leaving his seat. Harry closes his eyes when he senses the warmth of Snape's body next to his; the older man's robes lightly rubbing against the back of his hand.

"Why are you staring at this infernal rag like it holds the answers to the universe?" Snape asks; his breath tickling the long, silky strands of hair lying around Harry's neck.

With a shiver, the younger man points at his mother's portrait. When the Potions Master leans in to see, warm swathes of fabric, heated by his potent body skim against Harry's quivering skin.

The younger wizard quickly realizes he's still naked, and only just stops himself from letting his back and buttocks burrow further into Severus' strong frame.

"Is this your idea of a joke Mr. Potter?" vibrates Snape's chest.

"Wish it were, Sir," Harry declares breathlessly. Flushing, Harry maneuvers away, trying to cover his growing arousal with his hand.

The older wizard's eyes glint with delight and follow his ineffectual attempt at modesty. "Shy all of a sudden…Harry," Snape smirks.

Harry frowns and swallows. "Professor, this is…odd." As he escapes towards his bedroom, the younger man says, "Let me go put—"

Glimpsing at the ceiling, shaking his head, and then enjoying the sight of Harry's pert arse, the Potions Master shouts, "Potter!"

Harry stops in his tracks and glances over his shoulder.

Severus goes on deliberately explaining, "If you _wanted_ clothes, you would have them on." Snape swings his arms open and gestures at the room. "This is _your_ dream. _You _control everything." He raises a brow. "Except. Me."

Hearing the challenge, Harry inhales deeply and with wry confidence, fully turns around and walks slowly towards the austere man, casually removing his hand from his hard-on. Pupils dilating, the Slytherin clenches his jaw and stops himself from striding forward.

With a shimmer like rippling water, Harry's appearance transforms into the first thing that comes to his mind—what he looked like after Kreacher's pampered help.

Snape audibly gasps, his eyes darting to the tapestry then back at Harry. "Your…Black blood is more apparent when you dress the part."

Not only is Harry once again wearing fine, tailored attire but is also immaculately groomed and free of injuries.

Admiring his robes by sliding his healed hands over the sumptuous material, Harry says, "This was Cygnus'," Harry smiles, "my grandfather. Did you know him?"

The former Death Eater, watching Harry's every movement, nods. "Yes," then after hesitating a moment monotones, "We weren't…drinking mates…but were congenial enough to one another."

Harry's lips twitch, a laugh catching in his throat. The younger man evenly comments, "Professor, was that a euphemism indicating that you never fucked him or your attempt at a joke?"

Snape chooses to ignore the jibe.

Harry continues on, "I _am_ a recovering alcoholic," placing a hand over his heart, "and your turn of phrase was very insensitive." Managing to retain a serious expression, Harry steps closer towards the incredulous, older man. "I believe it's appropriate I receive some form of…indemnification."

Half-smiling and quirking an eyebrow, the Potions Master says, "If I didn't know any better, I would assume I was bantering with one from my own House."

Shattering his stern mien, a quick laugh bursts from Harry's mouth. "Did you know," the younger wizard huskily asks as his finger begins making its way down Snape's robes, leisurely circling every button, "that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin?"

"Now _that_ was a good one, Mr. Potter," drones Snape.

"No, really. With what I now know about my background," Harry nods his head towards the tapestry, "I was a stone's throw away from being Dark Lord the Third, and based on what _dear_, old Aunt Walburga said, am likely a Pureblood to boot."

Severus lifts a hand and with his thumb, caressing the famous scar on Harry's forehead.

"When you do that," Harry probes, allowing his eyelids to fall close, "are you thinking about him or me?"

"Both," the Potions Master breathes. "How could I not? But my preceding thought was that you defeated him—twice.

"Your scar is a symbol of sacrifice. Of victory. But most of all of _power_." Harry immediately lowers his gaze after hearing the last word. "You need to stop running away from it," the older man finishes harshly.

"Did you…love him?"

"In a way. Although it was _obviously_ one-sided." Snape's voice gets softer as he reminisces. "The Dark Lord _was_ power…and had a certain 'Je ne sais quoi.' Like a blanket, at times, he sheltered, and at other times—smothered, but either way, I was alway surrounded by darkness. I've always been more at home in the dark. The light is nice to visit, but why would you ever _want_ to live there." Severus tilts up Harry's face, "Where's the challenge in _that_.

"When I was younger, before his rebirth, he was darkly handsome…like you."

"Don't I remind you of my father?"

Snape still grasping Harry's chin angles it from side-to-side. "Without the glasses and ridiculous hair, you more resemble your mother—except for the arrogance, but that can be attributed to the Blacks as easily as the Potters. However the Blacks, unlike the Potters, were known for their beauty," the Potions Master releases Harry's chin and trails a finger down a smoothly shaven cheek, "it seems you have inherited that as well."

Breath hitching and a faint blush painting his cheeks, Harry in a soft, unhurried voice inquires, "Do you know who her mother could be?"

"Lily's?"

Harry nods.

"No. But…perhaps the Dark Lord did."

The younger wizard pales. "Why do you say that?"

"When he came after you, he didn't immediately kill her but instead gave her the choice to move aside." Somberness begins to weigh Snape's countenance and, absorbed, he repeatedly curls strands of Harry's hair around his finger. "I never understood why he did that. The Dark Lord was never merciful unless it was to his benefit. He detested Muggles and Muggleborns and stringently adhered to his ideals of wanting them eradicated from our world. I thought he may have done it for me because he was aware that I cared for her, but it could have been as simple as he knew she was a powerful Pureblood witch.

"You may have been right," Snape goes on.

"About what?" mumbles Harry, relaxed from Severus' touch.

"About you being a Dark Lord."

Harry snaps out of his calm and starts to sputter.

Snape raises a placating hand. "What I mean is the Dark Lord may have seen you as a possible rival. Since he was only a half-blood, he may have wanted you eliminated because of your pedigree."

Harry sighs from both the dreadful topic of discussion and the loss of Snape's dexterous fingers, when an amusing realization strikes him.

"Professor," the younger man smiles, "we are actually having a polite conversation."

The Potions Master snorts. "I always said that I would be dead before that happened and am…unfortunately, correct once again."

Laughter bubbles up from Harry's chest, causing Snape's face to soften for a moment before he clears his throat.

"On that note," the older wizard heads for the sofa, "I'm sure it's apparent to you that I don't want to remain—dead." Sitting down, Snape motions for Harry to follow suit. "What were—"

As the younger wizard approaches, the logs in the hearth ignite into a low, cozy fire, the morning sunlight rapidly changes to a dark-honeyed sunset, dimming the room, and a chilled bottle of wine with two glasses materializes on the coffee table.

Startled Harry halts mid-step.

"How…romantic," Snape drawls, his eyes filled with humour.

Ears turning red, Harry apologizes. "Allow me—"

"No need. It's…pleasant. Sit." As Harry complies, Snape scrutinizes the Burgundy. "Romanée-Conti." He looks at the younger wizard in approval, "Will wonders never cease," then proceeds to deftly pour them each a modest glass of the rich, nearly black liquid.

After accepting the proffered beverage, Harry raises it and habitually says, "Cheers," before bringing the rim up to his parted lips. His wrist further tips the stem, directing the wine towards his welcoming tongue—then stops; the Burgundy only a hair's breadth away from emptying into his mouth. The inside of the wide-rimmed glass fogs from his breath until he gradually lowers it. Looking down, Harry stares at his indistinct reflection on the surface of the dark liquid. He knows the Detoxify Draught can't stop him from drinking, and since he's only in a dream there wouldn't be any consequences from partaking in a taste…

Harry's hand begins to tremble, and after a loud exhale, the wine in his glass stops sloshing. The two wizards watch as the deep-purple beverage starts to swirl and progressively turns limpid and fizzy.

Taking a test sip, Harry sheepishly grins, "lemonade."

An elusive proud smile graces Severus' face, which he hurriedly covers, by acutely inhaling the layered aromas from his glass. Closing his eyes, a slow dribble of wine trickles over the Potions Master's keen palate, and a small moan escapes from his mouth in appreciation.

Harry focuses on the older wizard's wet lips as he continues to sensually consume the heady vintage.

Wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, Snape resumes asking the question that was interrupted. "What were the elements of the ritual that brought about the Dark Lord's return? I know very little since the Ministry placed a gag order on the event, precluding even Dumbledore from speaking of it."

"It was a potion that required an invocation."

"Anything else…" Snape intones. "Something more specific."

The younger wizard slowly states, "Blood magic. It used blood magic. Sacrifice."

The Potions Master grimaces, remembering how severely the Ministry regulated that dark branch of magic.

Understanding his former professor's reaction, Harry quickly suggests, "It's a long shot, but we could first try searching Hogwarts Library…" In a more subdued voice, he says, "Besides finding a way to bring you back, there's another…issue."

"Which is…"

"How," Harry mumbles.

"Speak. Up. Mr. Potter," Snape orders.

"How," Harry exclaims and drags a hand through his hair. "The amount of magic required to resurrect you." Harry shakes his head, "I can't! I donated all my inherited magical credits to go toward the reconstruction of Hogwarts."

"All. Of. Them," the Potions Master states hollowly, glancing about the opulently furnished room.

Lips tight, the younger man nods. "If I performed the magic necessary, with as few credits as I have now, the Ministry would be on me like a rabid dog. Ever since I was a child, my magical use has been under closer scrutiny, and I'm not going rogue to get off the grid. During the war, I had to live on the run, and I never want to do that again.

"I understand the principle of having credits. Without limits, people would abuse magic. Everyone could have pure-gold castles in the sky, make themselves gods. But from my experience, all the restrictions do is keep the old Pureblood families in power and causes regular wizards and witches to struggle, having to rely more on using galleons rather than spells to get by."

Snape scorns, "Most would think you parted with your credits for purely altruistic reasons, but I think you did it because you would have been too tempted _not _to use them."

Harry looks away. "Why I did it is no concern of yours—"

"It is…" the Potions Master neatly sets his glass on the table, "if what you did hinders me from no longer having to be deceased!"

Wincing from Snape's outburst, Harry offers, "I'll get help from one of my friends, Neville maybe." The younger man mutters to himself, "Is his grandmother dead yet…" _No_. Harry scowls, drinks the rest of his lemonade, and considers who could and _would_ give him the quantity of accumulated magical credits he'd need to perform such a powerful spell. _I could ask Da—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They _might_ have enough without totally depleting their stores, but it would be quite an uncomfortable chat considering…_

"How about Draco?" The Potions Master chimes in.

"Draco?" Harry says a little too fast, dropping his empty glass in his lap, causing Severus to frown. The younger man reins in his emotions, nonchalantly places his finished beverage on the tabletop, and states, "We're not exactly…friends."

"But he _is_ executor of my estate," Snape stresses. "We could demand that he give you my credits."

Slowly nodding, Harry agrees, "Worth a try. Although," he snickers, "it's more likely that he'll think I've gone off the deep end, and I'll find myself in a room next to the Longbottoms. Speaking of, I won't be able to pay Malfoy a _social call_ until after my appointment."

"Appointment? For what? New robes. A manicure perhaps," Severus goads.

Glaring, Harry clarifies, "No, with a Mind Healer."

"Can't it wait? All Hallows Eve will be in _two_ days."

"What does it matter?" inquires the younger man perplexedly. "Tom was resurrected during the middle of summer."

"The Dark Lord had a corporeal presence—I do not. This Friday the barrier between life and death will be thinnest. We should use it to our advantage."

"Do _you_ have experience working with alcoholics?" Harry asks flippantly, "because I promised Hermione I would talk to someone—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I have counseled for abusive-drinking."

Harry turns more towards Snape, the closer contact of their thighs building a lovely heat between them.

Severus begins to speak, pauses, and then says, "My father was an alcoholic. His alcoholism contributed to him being very abusive towards my mother and me."

Hearing the older man's words, Harry wants to crawl into a hole from shame. The Potions Master guides the younger man's face up and gazes into orbs that look like caldrons of steeping snapdragon flowers. "He never sought help. You _are._ While I was away, he killed my mother and like a coward himself." Severus tightly clutches Harry's chin, "_You_ are confronting your fears."

Loosening his hold, the older man asserts, "I am a Potions Master _not_ a Mind Healer nor am I a bloody blankie, but if you need someone to talk to about your drinking, I will listen. However," Severus rubs a strand of Harry's hair between his fingers and smirks, "I would prefer _not_ being fettered," the older wizard grins, "at least, not during counseling sessions."

Harry stares fixedly at Snape's lips, "Should we start now?"

"If you're ready. Are you comfortable or would you favor a different setting?"

"I…" The drawing room darkens and blurs. The abrupt appearance of torches momentarily blinds both wizards.

After the fluid in their inner ears stop spinning, they realize that they are both sitting in the alcove where Lily first kissed Severus on the mouth.

"I see…you deciphered how to navigate the sphere," Severus' smooth voice says innocently—too innocently.

Harry hears a repressed nasal grunt and narrows his eyes at the older wizard. _Is the arse trying not to laugh? I _knew_ he left out the directions to the sphere on purpose. _"No thanks to you," Harry bitterly retorts, patting his body to make sure he isn't nude or hasn't, Merlin forbid—grown younger.

Sighing in relief that he hasn't unconsciously embarrassed himself further, Harry grits, "My id is proving to be as much of a nuisance as you have been."

As the Potions Master is about to sharply retort, the younger man invades his personal space and firmly palms Snape's cock through his trousers, causing him to gasp. "You better be careful…Severus," Harry hisses, "unless, of course, you like being kept hard for _hours_…"

The Slytherin scrambles away, breathing wildly, waging war within himself. "In…" Snape blinks, grinds his teeth, staring at Harry so ravenously that Harry's swollen organ gushes pre-come. Once Severus regains control he roughly says, "In the sphere," he clears his throat, "there is also a memory of Cygnus that I recommend you watch. It may prove informative about your mother."

Offended, Harry queries, "Why did you pull away? I thought you…"

"Mr. Potter, you only just funneled into me a large quantity of magic from your already fragile core. We _must_ pace ourselves. Now, on to the topic at hand." Straightening his robes, Snape requests, "Explain how it began, your drinking."

Silently Harry grips his hands in his lap… Their hearts beat. Beat. Beat. Beat…

"I was _so_ tired," Harry finally begins, "of fighting. Of having to be _more_ than what I really was. I just…wanted the war to _end._ Thought about…running away or doing something that would make people stop expecting so much of me. I even contemplated joining Voldemort at one point, but didn't because I knew he would likely kill me and…I didn't _want_ to die." Clenching his fists, he whispers, "I wasted so much precious time.

"After the war, after I learnt about all of the casualties, I felt so…_chaotic_. At one moment, I would feel numb, the next angry, and the one after that so guilty that I couldn't bear one, more, second, of having to _exist_.

"My selfishness…" Harry's voice drops and becomes choked, "It killed so many." The younger man rests the back of his head against the stone wall at an angle, attempting to stave off gathering tears. "Fred, Remus, Tonks…you. If I had made a decision faster, dozens of lives could have been saved.

"But the worst," bitter drops travel down the side of Harry's face and into his dark, drooping mane, "the worst is _I_ was the one to live—_again_." The younger man turns to look at the Potions Master, "Why me? Why was I given a choice? Why not one of them? They had families. I had no one. They were brave. I was a coward." Harry's white knuckles jut from his fists so cruelly they look like they might rip through his skin.

Severus takes each of Harry's hands, gently squeezes, and with the sternest of expressions explains, "Harry… Life. Sucks," a laugh erupts from the younger wizard's mouth, jolting loose salty streams from the edges of his eyes, before the Potions Master blandly continues, "and death isn't much better. But even through all of life's many trials, I've found there are instances of…joy. Instances that…transcend _both_ life and death." Just as a lone tear flows past Harry's wet bottom lashes, Snape tenderly wipes it away. "I know this because when I was lost between life and the beyond, I could still remember my last memory—_your_ eyes."

Thinking, the Potions Master rubs the melancholy induced drop between his thumb and index finger.

"Beginning with when you witnessed the murder of your mother," Snape surmises, "you've had to endure a lot of pain and understandably developed a coping mechanism. Some," Severus minutely grins, "lash out to protect themselves; others, like you, hide within themselves. But like all injuries, whether they are of the body or of the mind, repeated trauma causes thick scar tissue to form, and it becomes more difficult to _feel_—to recall happier times. Darker emotions like anger, hate, and fear take a firmer root.

"Currently, you are lost in a forest of self-pity and doubt. But all you need to do, to escape the caging brambles of your mind, is to look for that sliver of open sky," Severus strokes the length of Harry's face, starting with his temple, and the younger man closes his eyes and slightly parts his mouth. "There, you might see a creature that gives your soul flight or you might wind up with shite on your face," Harry nonplussed pops open his eyes as the Potions Master proceeds to say, "but that moment of…" he glides his finger on the edge of Harry's full lip, "possibility—of hope. _That's_ what should be kept close—here," Severus places his hot hand over the younger wizard's chest, "as you trudge forward through life's mires. If you don't find and retain hope, you'll forever be lost."

"Professor," Harry can't help but ask as the corner of his drying eyes crease from a weak smile, "are you implying that I'm hopeless?"

"Haven't I always," Snape's molasses-like voice quips, his hand resting over the younger wizard's heart reluctantly lifting.

"So what do you suggest, Sir?" Harry's eyes flick keenly to all of the Potions Master's numerous buttons, desiring the tactile satisfaction of being able to unbutton every last one of them.

Shifting on the hard stone bench, his trousers feeling too tight, Severus agitatedly replies, "It's evident you've had to battle the effects of traumas for a number of years. You said you wanted to stop fighting, but that's precisely what you've been doing. You're fighting yourself—who you really are—who you could be. But please," the Potions Master prompts, "continue so that I may understand the complete situation. Did you get _any_ professional support after the war?"

"No, my friends, especially Ginny, my _ex_-wife," Harry hastily inserts, "helped me, until I was able to cope on my own…until my depression had diminished enough that I was no longer…suicidal." Anticipating a negative reaction, the younger man pauses and tenses; when Snape remains composed, Harry exhales in relief and resumes. "Early on, I was only drinking fairly sporadically. My first bender didn't occur until later when I was active in the field.

After staring at the twisting torch flames, the younger wizard shuts his eyelids and watches as an azure afterimage gradually melts into obscurity.

"Because of my name," Harry detachedly begins, "for my first assignment, I was put on a high-profile case that involved the kidnapping of Wizengamot member Joktan Stick's two children, both girls, ages twelve and ten. I soon discovered that the abduction was staged by Stick himself to garner sympathy votes for the upcoming election.

"He had hired a mercenary to keep them for a few days until I could conveniently 'find' them. But the children managed to break themselves free and were then captured by a well-known quartet of career criminals.

"When I located them," the younger man calmly describes, steadily regarding Snape's black-on-black eyes, "the older girl, barely able to stand from her injuries, was trying to shield her younger sister from being slaughtered. They only needed one alive for the ransom.

"My biggest mistake during the war was _not_ eliminating any threat given the first opportunity, staying my hand for the sake of being 'good.'

"But when I saw them threaten that little girl, when I saw what they had _done _to them, I didn't waver. I flung a curse that exploded all of their hearts within their chests, simultaneously.

The Potions Master's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, and a low hum rumbles in his throat.

"Killing those sick fucks had felt bloody satisfying, but by murdering them, I had become no better than them.

"The Ministry lauded my actions," Harry sardonically chuckles, "threw me a big bash. During it, I wanted to escape, and I did—into a tall bottle of firewhisky.

"It's been the same ever since. I protect as many innocents as I can and remove threats by whatever means necessary. But I know that with every kill," Harry digs his nails into the back of a hand, creating bloody crescent moons, "my soul grows dirtier—because on some level I enjoy it."

"Harry," Severus grabs each of the younger man's shoulders, "you are very pragmatic… Very _Slytherin_. That is _who_ you are. Who you have _always_ been; it seems." After gliding his palms along Harry's taut arms, he curls his fingers around strong wrists. "You should use your innate skills to their fullest _not_ be ashamed of them. Ever. "

The younger wizard's chest begins to rise and lower at a quicker rhythm, but rather than panicking from being held so restrictively, an excitement sizzles throughout the younger wizard's body. Snape licks his reddening lips and tightens his hands even more before pulling them away swiftly like they had come in contact with a scalding caldron.

Drawing his eyes away from the Potions Master's succulent mouth, Harry asks, "Was your first real kiss _here_ with Lily?"

Surprised from the rapid change in subject, Severus at once replies, "No."

Harry lifts a black brow expectantly.

"It was earlier…when I was in third year. A Ravenclaw," Snape chuckles.

_Shite, _the younger wizard thinks, _he's actually laughing, and it's not in vindictive glee._ Harry has the urge to find out who the git was that he kissed but instead forcefully clamps his lips shut.

"He was in the same year, and was so…," Severus drawls, "intelligent. We could talk theory for hours. Challenged each other." His eyes gleam.

"One day, the topic of kissing arose, and both untried, we made a wager on who could most magically improve the experience. It wasn't passion but purely curiosity that drove us. We agreed to wait until later to experience it for the first time. The loser of the bet would have to share all their school notes for a month.

"Two days later, he had fashioned a charm that allowed an individual to continually kiss without having to breathe for ten minutes.

"I developed a tonic. Regardless what a person ate, onions, garlic, their breath would remain fresh for the day. It was perfect—except for. One. Thing."

"What, Sir?"

"The…loss of voice." Snape clearly enunciates.

Harry chortles, "Yes, I can see how that might have been a problem, Professor."

Severus arches a brow. "Indeed. After we both...experimented, the task of deciding who won began. Since I couldn't rebut his claim that his was superior, he beat me by default."

An awkward silence commences once they both realize the double entendre of his last statement, both imagining taking the others manhood in hand and fisting it to completion.

Nosily clearing his throat, the Potions Master, speaking in his strictest lecturing voice, says, "The correction to my potion involved replacing the base liquid ingredient with a solid. The finished product were tablets."

"Tablets? White with blue specks?" the younger wizard inquires.

"Yes. How did you…" The Potions Master smirks, "Seems, Draco took my recipe and ran with it."

"It's made him a fortune in galleons," Harry expounds. "Since it saves having to use magical credits but is faster than brushing ones teeth, it's now a household staple. _I_ use it."

Snape leers, "How does it feel knowing you've put something of mine in your mouth every day, Harry?"

Rebuffing the older wizard taunt, the younger man mischievously grins. "I'm more interested in seeing Ron's expression when he finds out."

"Weasley," growls out the Potions Master with a look of mild disgust.

"What?" Harry begins laughing in earnest. "The look that would be on his face. He had a hard enough time when he thought _Draco_ made them."

Quieting and dabbing tears from the edges of his eyes, the younger wizard asks, "What was his spell, the Ravenclaw's?"

Smiling at Harry's jovial mood, Severus answers, "Cetusupernato."

"Ce-TU-su-per-NA-to," copies the younger man. Catching the older man's upturned lips and genuine warmth shining from his eyes, Harry's heart aches with _want_. Like a falling star breaking free from the nothingness of space, blazing across the Earth's sky, he leans forward and slowly slides his tongue across Snape's fuller lower lip.

A rich resonate rumble sounds from Severus, his body igniting with desire. As Harry climbs onto him, bringing their hardening cocks together, only a thin layer of material separating them, a soft magical pulse causes Snape to grind into him and start to pant.

With a labored groan, the Potions Master halts Harry from deepening the kiss, a firm hand on each shoulder. "As much as it _pains_ me to stop, we…must."

The younger wizard gyrates his hips, arching his back. "Want you," Harry moans.

A stronger rush of energy spirals into Snape and he grunts.

"You're too weakened…" Panting in pleasure and shaking from exertion, Severus, stammers, "Your magic… Merlin… Tastes like honey, like ambrosia…" With a low cry, the Potions Master's fingers bruise through Harry's robes, and yank Harry to him, sealing their lips. Harry delves into Snape's mouth, the hint of berries, leather, and licorice from the wine still on his tongue.

A wild moan emits from Severus' as the younger man thoroughly explores his palate, gums, and inner cheeks. Harry nibbles his way to the unscarred side of Snape's neck and senses when he gulps.

The Potions Master manages to utter, "Can't risk…draining you dry…" As another swell of magic mounts, he groans, "Power…feels so good. Can't…stop," and he presses harder against Harry's straining rod, creating more friction.

"Harry!"

"No," the younger man protests between licks and bites, "too…amazing."

"Harry!"

The private corridor darkens, the smell of torch smoke fades, and the heat from Severus' eager body disappears.

"Harry," yells a feminine voice.

Feeling like he's been stuck out in the desert for days, naked and with no food or water, the younger man weakly opens his eyes and sees the hearth hissing with a cold, green fire. _Fuck._


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Still lying on his stomach, Harry turns his face away from the sour-bile-colored floo call and thumps his forehead against the hardwood floor. _Merlin_, _I feel like I transfigured myself into a pile of shit_.

Once more, his name is shouted from the fireplace. Harry groggily lifts his aching body onto his hands and knees and off his painfully engorged cock. With a dry throat, he croaks, "Just a sec."

The tender wounds on his palms burn as he slowly crawls towards a settee. Grabbing a silk throw pillow, he places the object over his groin to preserve what dignity he can.

"Harry," Hermione barks, "I am one flip of a Time-Turner away from com—"

"No! No. I'm—" (_She's not the only one who wishes they could come_.) "Um…" Harry loses his train of thought when Snape's sultry voice intrudes in his mind.

Now in view, Harry feebly smiles, hiding his injured hands on the pillow nestled in his lap. Looking away from Hermione's angry, concerned visage and curtaining his lips with his hair, he quietly hisses at the bodiless wizard, "Shut up! Just because you have metaphysical blue balls, doesn't mean you need to take out your frustration on me!"

The brief sensation of a cold fist squeezing his hot, throbbing member causes Harry to gasp. When he hears the following deep, dark chuckle, his body shivers and breaks out in gooseflesh.

Easily able to examine Harry's appearance because of his lack of clothes—again, Hermione notes that her friend _and_ patient appears extremely pale, almost gaunt, with a feverish flush to his cheeks and a sickly layer of sweat. She furrows her eyebrows and asks in a professional manner, "Are…you…okay?"

After he swallows, attempting to moisten his throat, Harry sighs and facetiously declares, "I'm alive."

"Harry," she says in a long growl.

_Impudent as ever, Potter_, Snape grumbles_. However, you fail to realize how dire your situation truly was. If we hadn't been interrupted, I would have likely _killed_ you._

"What!" Harry yells hoarsely, causing Hermione to jump. (_I must unfortunately confess that I have become…dependent on your power_.) Quickly obscuring his mouth with his hand Harry whispers, "You're…addicted to me?" (_Apparently_.)

An icy sensation brushes along his lower lip, down his jaw, neck, and around a nipple. _Merlin…what's he touching me with? A finger? His tongue? _Shuddering and barely preventing himself from grinding into the smooth, cushioned fabric, concealing his seeping slit, Harry manages to wheeze, "Sorry, Hermione. It seems I'm having more…complications than anticipated after ingesting the draught. You caught me while I was…napping."

"You look _awful_," she glances at the darkening bruises covering his body, "and…why do you look like you got into a tussle with a Dementor?" Hermione scowls, "If your side effects from the potion are this severe and long-lasting, you shouldn't be alone, _and_ you should have contacted me sooner," her voice getting louder and shriller with every word.

Clearing his throat, Harry assures the petite woman, "I haven't been alone. (_Technically_… _Does a voice in your head count?)_ Kreacher is residing here again. (_But he's not in fact _here. _At. The moment_.) I admit I'm still weak and clumsy and…might have taken a tumble down the stairs (_before being cursed, nearly raped, and almost dying) _but otherwise I'm fine." (_You tell half-truths so prettily, Mr. Potter._)

Ignoring Hermione's suspicious glare and Snape's maddening commentary, Harry studies the room. The shadows, made from the sunlight streaming in through the tall wall of windows, don't appear to have changed. _I must have been unconscious for only a few minutes_.

"How was your appointment yesterday?" his Ministry appointed Healer probes, halting his musings.

Harry, keeping his expression blank, opens his mouth and takes in a deep breath. "I…"

Posture deflating, Hermione murmurs, "You promised—"

"And. I. Kept it," Harry cuts in with force, disregarding how much he sounded like his former potions professor. Inhaling slowly through his nose to calm himself, he explains, "I wasn't able to go yesterday because I was busy dealing with my bequeathment from Snape. I'm sure Ron told you about it." She slowly nods and he carries on, "Last night, my dreams were troubled, and I woke up…_prematurely_." Snape snorts at the insulting insinuation, and Harry restrains a grin. "Even given the early time, I wanted to schedule an appointment. During an initial short conversation, he informed me of his past experience counseling alcoholics and that it wouldn't be an issue to begin our first official session straight away. I've already made a lot of progress."

Hermione's perfectly groomed right brow arches in skepticism.

"He inquired about my past and deduced that I've been coping by disassociating parts of myself. He suggested that I need to accept who I am, and…" as Harry continues to talk, he notices his best friend's back and shoulders easing up, "to _live_ again, he prescribed that I need to regain hope."

Earnest chestnut orbs glimmer with flickers of joy and rapidly blink. "I'm so very glad for you, Harry."

_Very well recapitulated_, Severus husks, _except…you failed to mention my name. I do so enjoy it when you say my name…Harry._

A little moan sounds from behind the line of the wizard's mouth.

"Would you like me to send over some salve for the pain and bruising?" Hermione asks worriedly. "Remember, you can't consume any potions, but topical remedies are fine."

Pupils dilated and lips plump with blood, he gives a stilted nod. Shifting in discomposure from his longtime friend's scrutiny, the pillow slicks over the head of his penis, and Harry bites his lip to keep from making another unwelcome noise.

Hermione's eyes widen and her breath hitches. She averts her gaze, now understanding that Harry has been very much aroused during their entire conversation—again. Huffing, she lets Harry know she'll be right back.

After a burst of lime sparks, a jar pops up from the fire, lands on its side, and then rolls towards Harry's knee, making tight, wobbly circles, before coming to a rest on its lid.

"Spread a thin layer over your skin," the Potions Mistress instructs. "Leave it on for thirteen to nineteen minutes—and not a second longer. Do you know what happens if Lausks Remedy stays on too long?"

"Um," Harry says, drawing a blank. (_Your skin goes numb and cracks, causing profuse bleeding._) He repeats Snape's answer, and Hermione's mouth falls open, flabbergasted.

"I knew you became well-versed in Advanced Offensive Potions and have improved many by experimenting with lesser known Muggle ingredients," she prattles on with incredulous excitement, "but you never mentioned you also took the time to learn about the healing arts!"

Harry smiles crookedly, not only at Hermione, but also at Snape's newfound silence. "What can I say? I'm a man of many…talents." He grins wider and then laughs when Hermione turns beet red. "I'm ribbing you. I must admit that I'm only a lowly neophyte when it comes to that lighter branch of potion crafting, and must still rely on experts, such as you, when I inevitably injure myself. "

The Potions Mistress glowers, "I should have known better. It only makes sense that the one area of Potions _you_ would pursue is the one that includes _wanting_ to destroy things, taking into account how many times you damaged your workstation in Professor Snape's class."

_You…_actually_ can brew and _comprehend_ the theory of advanced_ _potions_, a disbelieving voice darts through Harry's mind.

Green irises gleaming with unrepressed mischief, a sly grin teases at Harry's lips. "Come on… I wasn't _that_ bad. I _was_ the star pupil in Potions during sixth year."

Hermione harrumphs. "That's because you cheated, using an unfair advantage."

"It's only cheating if you get caught," Harry charmingly smiles.

"Merlin, Harry," she exclaims, with large, round eyes. "You sound like a Slytherin. And you _were_ caught," she folds her arms over her chest, "by Professor Snape."

"What can I say… _Severus_ couldn't keep his eyes off me." he wiggled his eyebrows. The back of Harry's head receives a smack, causing him to quietly grunt.

Hermione shakes her head and purses her lips, reminding Harry of Headmistress McGonagall. "Show a little respect for the dead, Harry." She waves her wand and then sighs. "I must get going. I'll be attending a symposium on creature classification at the Ministry all week, _however_, if for _any_ reason you need me, don't hesitate to send a memo. And for Merlin's sake, Harry, put on some bloody clothes!"

"I will; I will." Harry agrees, forcing away a growing grin.

The two old friends give their parting salutations, and a second later, the fireplace lies dormant.

Harry tosses the pillow back onto the sofa, inaudibly swearing at his exposed straining length. He uses his cut and bruised hands to open the container Hermione gave him and dig out a dollop of cream. As soon as the mercury-like substance touches his fingertips, it turns clear and envelops his calloused flesh with pleasant warmth. Gritting his teeth in discomfort, he limberly slathers a layer over the whole surface of his skin, including his cock.

Once the concoction makes contact with the wine-colored organ between his legs, Harry closes his eyes as zings of pleasure ricochet throughout his body. Before he forgets, he wandlessly sets a timer for thirteen minutes and reclines on the floor. Enjoying the blanket of healing heat, already feeling less sore, he leisurely stretches. (_You look delectable, Mr. Potter) _Harry unhurriedly opens his lids.

"Good enough to eat?" the younger wizard asks with a smirk. (_If that's what you wish_.)

"Sorry Sir," Harry says, as he watches the above moving mural of orbiting planets and constellations, drifting in a sea of blackness, "considering how drained I feel, I don't think that's a good idea. How did I almost meet my demise anyway?"

_Your body isn't merely harboring a soul fragment as it did with the Dark Lord. Our very souls have somehow become linked. Due to this connection, your magic is also trying to mend the fractures in mine. That's why it's taking longer for the layers of protection around your magical core to regenerate, and why you feel more fatigued than usual after experiencing magical drain. _

_My lost soul thirsts for power. If you willingly give, it's near impossible for me not to take. _

_After a wizard performs intense magic, depending on how potent he is, it can take a few minutes to many hours for him to replenish his magical stores. Based on how much you've given in such a short amount of time and seeing as you're not comatose, you can restore your levels extremely fast—unsurprising. Thus, providing me with magical energy might slow down your overall recovery, but it won't harm you—as long as you can stay in control and not lose yourself. _

"So you're saying _I_ almost killed myself then—by not stopping?" (_Another excellent summary, Mr. Potter_.) Harry snorts and his face pinches in vexation.

Checking the state of his palms beyond the shiny coating, he sees that the gashes have sealed shut; even the dry, rough spots on his skin are once again soft and smooth. _I need to rinse off soon_. Harry sits up, screws the lid on over the leftovers, and places the jar on the coffee table.

He groans as he climbs to his feet, before heading towards the loo. Once in front of the sink, mouth parched, Harry turns on the faucet, cups his hands and takes a much desired drink. He goes on to brush his teeth, and as soon as Harry replaces the toothbrush on the countertop, the loud ringing of a bell goes off in his mind. After he ends the charm, Harry quickly turns on the shower, tests the temperature, and steps inside.

When the water hits his skin and mixes with the remedy, the combination creates a peppermint-scented, light-pink vapor, which further clears Harry's head. He rubs his body, washing off dried blood and perspiration. The pelting water starts to sting his vulnerable member, and to protect it from more abuse, Harry encircles it within his fist. A shuddering breath leaves his mouth, before he lowers his eyelids shut and mercilessly begins pumping, sliding his foreskin over the glans. With his other hand, Harry teases and squeezes a nipple. (_Exquisite..._)

Harry gasps when he hears Severus' soft purr and clenches his eyes closed tauter. _Fuck_… He's_ watching _me. _To function, I need to get off, but I can't…let myself lose control._

Confronted by a fantasy he's had since his teenage years, the younger wizard gulps and slows down his strokes. He purposely glides his fingers from the pebbled nub on his chest, down the expanse of his chiseled stomach, and to his full sack. Head falling back and neck arching, Harry grips his cock more firmly, while rolling a testicle with the soft pads of his fingers.

The unexpected icy pressure of his perineum being massaged makes Harry's breath catch and pre-come fount from his penis. His power throbs and spikes, and the low echo of a moan in Harry's mind causes his knees to shake and strain. Gritting his teeth, he manages to regain mastery over his magic.

Fear and discomfort, from being touched so intimately, doesn't overwhelm Harry; instead lust and want—no _need_—rule his next action.

Eyes fluttering open, lashes heavy with droplets of water, he swallows hard. "Severus," Harry demands, "show yourself."

The younger wizard watches as a transparent image of the Potions Master, kneeling, fully robed, appears. Harry stares into rapt, intense, black eyes, when he feels a finger slip up from behind his balls, stimulating the sensitive tight ring of muscle between his buttocks.

A cry gets caught in Harry's throat. Compelling his eyes to remain open, a soft moan vibrates in the younger man's chest each time pearlescent cream shoots from the tip of his cock towards Severus' upturned face.

The Potions Master, mouth open and panting, bows back as controlled power spirals into his magical core. He's amazed when, for a brief few seconds, his form solidifies, and he can feel Harry's hot come land on his tongue. The simple sensation of tasting Harry's rich, tangy flavored orgasm triggers a long awaited physical release, and strong pulses of thick fluid fill Severus' trousers.

Without warning, a tidal wave of energy and pleasure slams into Harry. Legs giving out, he slumps onto his knees.

Face still in rapture, Snape starts to fade away, while the younger wizard cries out in ecstasy from the great influx of power and once again climaxes.

"Wow," Harry gasps, removing wet strands of hair from his view. In confusion, he asks, "Why don't I feel weaker?"

The Slytherin, sounding stunned, murmurs, _You feel…adequate because we had an _even_ exchange of magic. I may have become overzealous and…inadvertently returned the power you had just given me._

Harry wobbles to his feet. Beaming, he laughs, "I feel more than adequate, more like…fucking brilliant!" A light, frosty caress against his lips is all the reply the younger wizard receives.

Attending to his ablutions, Harry doesn't know what to make of what he, moments ago, experienced; his emotions are like a dense flock of starlings, soaring and dipping. Once again, he replays what just happened, when something strikes him. "Severus?" (_Yes._) "Earlier…for a moment, you looked so…alive."

Severus sighs and in a subdued voice says, _I think I was…but only for an instance. _

"Really? Do you thin—"

_You are a powerful wizard, Harry. Your gifts have always astonished me and…tormented me. To have touch and taste, to see and hear with eyes and ears once more was…wonderful. And now that it's gone again…it's…near unbearable. _

_But what happened could only ever be temporary. No one, not even Merlin himself, could permanently resurrect the dead through sheer will alone, but…there are other methods…darker methods. Are you having second thoughts? _

Enjoying the warm water from multiple spray jets, the younger wizard shakes his head 'no.' (_Then stop. Buggering about!_)

"I'm not," Harry hollers, rinsing out mint-fragranced shampoo from his hair. "Proper washing takes longer than a bloody minute—if you didn't know. And no need to yell. Merlin's Beard! Having a disembodied voice rampaging in my head is worse than someone screaming directly into my ear.

"Let me finish getting ready and complete a necessary task and _then_ we can set out." (_Fine. But _don't_ dawdle. And we will begin by visiting Draco._)

Harry curtly replies, "Fine." _Impatient_ _bloody bastard._ (_That would have been thirty points from Gryffindor, Potter._)

"Don't use Legilimency on me!" the younger wizard shouts, growing livid. (_I'm not! Think Mr. Potter! Our souls are linked, therefore, so are our minds. It seems our connection is strengthening. I can't read your thoughts, but I _can_ sense an emotion when it's strong enough.)_

Harry realizes why his second orgasm had felt so intense; it wasn't only his pleasure he had felt—but also Severus'.

"If you can only _feel_ what I think, then how did you—" (_I've taught daft-headed little miscreants for almost twenty years. I. Just. Know._)

Glowering at the wall adorned with various stones, gems, and precious metals, picturing water serpents swimming among lily pads, the younger wizard silently mouths 'arse.' (_As you wish._)

Harry's right rear cheek receives a robust swat, causing him jump to his toes. "Ouch!" (_Don't. Dawdle._)

As soon as Harry ends his shower—_finally_ no longer sporting a hard-on—he relieves himself in the toilet. Not wanting to give Snape any more lusty notions, Harry lifts a black, cotton Japanese yukata robe from a silver hook and drapes it onto his body, tying it at the waist.

He starts striding towards the wardrobe, when a loud crack erupts from behind. Immediately twisting his body, crouching, and unsheathing his wand, the wizard comes face-to-face with—Kreacher. Harry's stomach proceeds to growl ravenously.

The house-elf cringes and shrieks, "Kreacher promises to feed Master soon!"

Lowering his weapon and rising to his feet, Harry smiles reassuringly, "Sorry about that," and then examines the elf. The small creature's appearance no longer shows signs of swelling; only faint, yellow-tinged bruising is the lasting evidence of the cruelty he suffered. "How are you feeling?"

"Angry," Kreacher grumbles. "Retched sneaky wizard."

Glad the house-elf is feeling like his regular self, Harry presses his lips tight as a grin pushes his cheeks up. "Food sounds terrific, but first, do you think you could help me get ready again?"

"Of course, Master. What will Master be doing today?"

"I'll…be visiting a pureblood household, the Malfoys."

Kreacher hops in enthusiasm and then, as he leads Harry into the closet, mutters to himself, "Miss Cissy and young Master Draco be of the blood, but Master Malfoy is still head…"

Once in the wardrobe—that appears to have grown even larger since the last time he was in here—Harry's robe vanishes. He stands still as the critical-eyed house-elf begins to circle him.

"Kreacher, I'm in—"

"Master wishes to hurry," deadpans the house-elf.

"Ye—"

A loud snap cuts Harry off, and a strange bustle of air tickles his skin. For a fraction of a second, light catches on the hair clippings floating from his body, and with a wave of a bony arm, Kreacher makes them to disappear. The wizard rubs his smooth chin and glances down, soon realizing that he has been freshly trimmed and shaven—including his more delicate areas.

Harry ignores Snape's throaty sound of appreciation.

The elf goes deeper into the closet, where the formal suits and robes hang, and brings his long-fingered hands together in a single clap. All at once, accessories and tailored garments soar from hangers and shelves, zooming towards Harry.

After a white, high-collar shirt glides onto his body and buttons, a wide, deep-green silk tie, with a charcoal, diagonal-pattern, mimicking a long lightning bolt, follows. Then, a double-breasted waistcoat, the same color as Severus' eyes, decorated with a subtle floral design, and a short-woolen frock coat, trimmed in satin with matching trousers, descend onto the wizard's body.

Swirling playfully around his frame before sliding on, black robes, lined in stark white, rest on Harry's shoulders, the hem lying a few inches below his knees, flaring out like a cape. Finally, dark silk socks, Oxfords, and jewelry, including Cygnus' 'Toujour Pur' pin, used as a tie tack, Harry's money &amp; key chain, and a gold snake collar clasp, find their rightful places.

Harry is about to holster his wand when Kreacher snatches it away. "Master cannot hide it—wouldn't be proper." Sparks fly and a black, leather belted scabbard materializes and winds around the wizard's waist. Next, the house-elf attaches a decorative, ornate handle to the wand.

With confidence, the elf states, "Master knows how to safely release the ornament from his wand," and sheaths the holly rod near his hip.

"I'm guessing it involves…blood."

The wrinkles on Kreacher's face lift in a satisfied grin.

The elf styles Harry's hair to a glossy sheen, finishing with spritzing on the light floral scent the young wizard can't quite place.

"Would Master like a mirror?"

"No, thank you. I'm sure I look brilliant."

Declaring he will start on breakfast, the elf gives a little bow and pops away.

Snape drawls, _You look…stunning. Should I be jealous?_

Harry snorts. He exits the wardrobe, continuing on towards the drawing room, until he's standing before the fireplace. "I'm recently divorced—since the day before yesterday." He scoops a handful of floo powder. "It's too soon for me to commit to anything, but…I'm open to dating," (_Dating?)_ "or being friends with benefits." (_Friends?_)

Huffing, the younger man retorts, "_That's_ the word you focus on."

After clearly enunciating the location, Harry throws the twinkling dust onto the hearth and kneels. Plunging his head into the slithering flames and to the sensation of tiny tongues lapping at flesh, Harry calls out, "Hello? Kluga?"

Strident hammering ceases and a lilting voice answers, "No, Lista."

Once he sees the she-goblin's diminutive form, topped with a device that puts George's headgear to shame, Harry recalls that she's his Solicitor's youngest sister. "Pleasure to meet you again, Lista. Is Kluga home?" (_Mr. Potter, how is it that you have access to The Warren_?)

She tilts her head to the side in puzzlement like she's trying to decipher the ramblings of a small child. "You…are aware she has a position at Gringotts." (_A she-goblin openly working in a trade!_)

"Yes, I'm aware but—"

Black eyes narrowing and staring at Harry like she's contemplating the fate of an insect, Lista's lungs deflate with a hiss. "I was about to put the final touches on my next artifice, but…I suppose I can take over Kluga's duties—for a time. Await her call in," she grabs a glowing hourglass, "precisely twenty-one minutes and thirty-seven seconds." A force pushes the wizard backwards, and he lands on his arse as the black marble stone loses its green overtone.

Smelling newly brewed tea and fried bacon, Harry's mouth salivates. He steps away from the mantle and turns around. On top of the coffee table, sits his breakfast atop a silver tray. Harry begins to pat his clothes to remove ash and smooth out the wrinkles, but stops, when he notices the affixed charms within the garments have kept them pristine.

While sitting on the sofa, Harry tucks into his meal and enlightens the Potions Master as to how he came to meet the trio of goblin sisters. Every time the older wizard chuckles, a delighted flush colors Harry's cheeks. The younger man was enjoying hearing Severus' dramatic telling of the female goblin rebel Ianua the Impenetrable when the fireplace whooshes.

"Harry!" A high-pitched voice shouts.

Smiling at the she-goblin's keenness, the wizard sets down his tea cup and greets the cheerful female. "Kluga! How have you been?"

She growls in exasperation, "You don't want to know," then goes right on to say, "Dealing with a troublesome deposit. A client wishes to place magical bagpipes in his vault."

"Gringotts has a policy against…bagpipes?" Harry questions perplexed.

"No, of course not—against handling live entities. The musical instrument houses a Fosse Grim. After you used a dragon to escape, it was adjudicated that accepting anymore such beings was too much of a security risk."

"A friend of mine," Harry replies, "Rubeus Hagrid, who's the Care of Magical Creatures Professor at Hogwarts, said he's sought a fiddle with one for years. If I remember correctly, a Fosse Grim, found predominantly in Scandinavia, is a small sprite that has an affinity for water and music."

Kluga grins. "Yes! Do you think your friend would mind if I owled him? Maybe he could assist me in figuring out a solution."

"Hagrid's great! He was my first friend. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." (_Hurry it up, Mr. Potter_.) Harry rolls his eyes.

"Well, the reason I needed to speak with you," the wizard says, reclaiming the she-goblins distracted attention, "was that I've decided to take you up on your offer and purchase a home safe."

The corners of the wizard's eyes pinch as a thrilled squeal stabs his eardrums.

"Between the Standard and Deluxe models," she zooms along saying, "I'm sure you'd prefer the Deluxe model. Do you want to upgrade to Expedited Service?"

"Uh…sure."

"Cracking decision, Sir!" the she-goblin exclaims to the sound of a quill hastily scratching against parchment. "Once I complete filing some paperwork, I'll place your order. Until we see each other again. Pip pip!"

A second later, the loud, resounding clang of the doorbell ringing throughout the house startles Harry, and he almost whacks his head on the stone border of the fireplace. Starting towards the doorway, the wizard pulls out his wand. His fist flexes around the handle, testing the new feel of the grip. The squeak of a floorboard is his only warning before—Kluga grandly enters the drawing room, in a whirlwind of color.

Adorned in a prismatic, A-line dress that changes color with the slightest of movement and rainbow- heels, the she-goblin looks like the perfect fashion fusion of the feminine fifties and the gaudy, disco-crazed seventies. What appears to be a pair of Muggle headphones smashes her fluffy, white mass of hair.

Kluga runs to the wizard and hugs him so hard his shins ache. "Merlin, Harry! You're simply smashing!"

Replacing his wand at his waist once she withdraws her hold, Harry says, "Thank you. You look…eye-catching, as well." (_She resembles what a sadistic Muggle child would do to a doll._)

"Lista was right!" Gaze boring into his, the she-goblin lowers her voice, "Did you know you're possessed? And…I think the spirit might have been an arsehole."

Harry's boisterous laughter booms throughout the room, and he places a hand on each knee to keep himself from toppling over. Wiping away tears, Harry inquires, "Why do you say that?"

"When you called, my sister said her magical gauges were acting quite peculiar and that it became worse when she heard a rude—albeit sexy—voice. Her caveat for substituting for me was to test the effectiveness of her device," Kluga raises her fingers and places them over the apparatus hiding the bottom parts of her big, pointy ears, "and inform her of who the owner of the voice was." After readjusting a button by her left ear, she shouts towards Harry, "Greetings! I am Kluga, eldest daughter of Gurehjt, and I'm Mr. Potter's personal solicitor. Being who inhabits Harry's _most_ _fit_ body, by any chance…were you Severus Snape?"

Silence.

"Come on, Sir," Harry encourages, "or I'll start to think I'm going mental."

The Potions Master exhales and grits, _Fine _then as debonair as ever says, _Miss Kluga it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I _am_ indeed Severus Snape._

"Morgana's quim!" Realizing what she said, the she-goblin gasps, covers her mouth, and turns strawberry red. "I apologize for my crudeness, but it's one thing to guess and another thing to _know_."

Chuckling from Kluga's honest shock, Harry inquires, "How did you figure it was the Professor?"

"Wasn't difficult. You didn't set off any alarms when I first met you at Gringotts, and the withdrawal you accepted was from the deceased, a Mr. Severus Prince Snape. Some of the details I recall from his profile—which I can voice since he's officially dead—are: he's right-handed, has a predilection for wearing black, and…as for how many sexual partners he's—"

Very intrigued as to what the she-goblin was going to say, but not wanting to rile the former Death Eater further, he interjects, "I'm curious; what does your sister's device do?"

"Ragnuk knows! When I asked the same question, Lista said that it gives sound to energy—whatever that means."

(_As _fascinating_ as this conversation is, can we get on with it?_)

"Oh, hush you! No need to be any more _possessive_ than you already are," Kluga sniggers. "Although, I can understand _why_. You've managed to snag quite the catch."

Harry's neck warms in embarrassment, and he clears his throat. "Are we waiting for the safe to be delivered?"

"Nope. I have it with me." She thwacks the gold lamé purse, dangling from her right shoulder. Did you want this to be a secondary safe or a replacement?"

The wizard's brow crinkles with lines. "Replacement?"

"Replacement it is! Just to let you know there is an additional fee for removal." The she-goblin unsnaps her bag and retrieves a rolled scroll. She mumbles to herself as she reads. With a nod, Kluga replaces the document, and walks away without a word.

Harry hears a rustle and then watches in amazement as the Black Family tapestry rises like a theatre curtain. Stepping up onto the tips of her toes, the she-goblin knocks on the center of the bared wall, four steady times. The chandelier above starts to sway, the windows rattle, and the strings in the grand piano resonate. With a low rumble, the vertical bands of two-toned-plum-and-eggplant wallpaper divide in the middle and slide apart, revealing an unadorned, black door.

Abruptly losing her happy-go-lucky attitude, Kluga coldly stresses, "Mr. Potter, stay _out_ while I deactivate all of the wards. I will inform you when it is safe to enter. Do you understand? Please state your response aloud."

"Yes, I understand."

"You too, Mr. Snape." (_Yes…and I'll try to keep Mr. Potter out of trouble_.)

"Splendid!" she smiles once more.

Once she grips the doorknob, a bright bluish-white light flashes and the magical backlash ripples Harry's robes and cause his teeth to ache. When the she-goblin pushes the door open, particles of dust rush out and sparkle in the morning rays.

"I have a hunch _you_ Mr. Snape are exactly the type of trouble Harry can't wait to get into." The dark room swallows her laughter before the door slams shut.

_Your description pales_, The Potions Master breathes.

Harry chuckles darkly. "I did warn you." (_I think the Dark Lord would have won the war if he had garnered her loyalty._)

"Scary thought. Granted, it might have been worth it if she was the one in charge of dressing him."

Both can't help but snicker.

Plopping into a sage-colored armchair, which faces the view outside, the younger wizard requests, "Professor, while we wait, would you mind finishing your story about Ianua? I'd like to know what happened to her after she was captured." (_Not a lot is known. It's assumed she was killed in the early fourteen hundreds. Other accounts say she might have escaped and fled to mainland Europe._)

"I know what happened," whispers a voice in his ear.

Harry turns his head and jerks back, seeing the she-goblin only a wand's width away, a silly grin crinkling her eyes.

"Ianua is a mystery…," Kluga explains with her excessively rouged lips, "to the Wizarding world but not to Goblin society. To us, she's deemed a blood traitor," the she-goblin sighs and places a hand over her chest, "however, I've always thought her tale was so romantic, winning the heart of her captor, a handsome wizard.

"Ianua's descendants inherited her husband's beauty and her Goblin avarice. I believe you met the last of her line while attending Hogwarts, a Blaise Zabini."

"Zabini?" both wizards yell in astonishment.

With two short hums, she nods her head 'yes.'

"Funny," she utters absentmindedly, watching a large, black bird glide across the sky, riding the rising air currents, "how people tend to hate most what they themselves are."

Catching herself woolgathering, the she-goblin says, "Well, everything's ready for you, Harry. All harmful wards and unwanted curses were removed.

"I did a little rearranging, and the items from the former safe have been deposited in the new one.

"Here," Kluga slaps a roll of parchments on his lap, "are the instructions and your receipt and here," another swish of air proceeds a smack on his legs, "is the work order."

The she-goblin hands Harry a quill. "Initial here, here, here, and here and place your signature here."

Once Harry signs his name at the bottom, Kluga screams and hugs him around his neck, jumping up and down. "My sisters and I thank you so much, Sir! Our bills were piling up because of ongoing legal costs of keeping my position at Gringotts and other issues. Your patronage has helped us tremendously!"

Smiling, the wizard wraps his arms around the young she-goblin, "_You_ are exceptional, and…I'd like to keep you on retainer. What do you say?"

Kluga, stares at him slack jawed. "Sir…"

"I'll take that as 'yes.'"

The she-goblin nods her head accepting his offer and wipes away the tears running along the side of her long, pointed nose. "Gringotts thanks you for your business, Mr. Potter." Kluga pecks him on the cheek. "I foresee a busy day ahead of you. I'll show myself out. It's been a pleasure Mr. Snape."

The two wizards wish her goodbye. Back straight and head held high, she struts away with a little extra sway to her hips, pinching some leftover bacon on her way.

Once the she-goblin disappears down the corridor, Harry stands from the regal, yet comfortable, chair, his spine cracking as his back stretches. Documentation in tow, he marches into his bedroom and grabs the chest that still holds the Revoco Sphere off the bedside table. He then proceeds to stride towards the newfound doorway.

Harry peeks in past the dark wood doorframe and sneezes. A dim small office under a film of dust contains a desk shoved against the back wall and a well-worn, leather swivel chair. Paperwork and debris litter the workspace and several maps stabbed with red pins hang above. To the left is another plain door, likely a storage closet, and to the right, a window, and a great painting already swung open beside a…_walk-in_ safe. _Wow! It's massive!_

It appears Kluga rubbed a circle into the grime-covered plane of glass to let some light in. Instead of the city skyline, he sees Neolithic stones interspersed on a vast field of grass. As Harry starts to head towards the vault, his robes snare on something behind the door.

He hears a soft clink before black feathers, talons, and a sharp beak attack his face. Instinctively, Harry drops the contents in his hands, shielding himself with one arm and drawing his wand with the other. He hisses when the back of a hand slices open. As swiftly as the avian assault began, it ends.

A flap of air stirs Harry's hair, and the huge bird lands on the floor and collects an unidentified object with its beak, before returning to its wrought iron perch. The crow studies the wizard, tilting its head this way and that.

Keeping his distance, Harry's chest dips and rises from the adrenaline still flooding his veins. He takes a deep breath, swallows, and then softly says, "Have you been stuck in here all this time?"

The stately bird replies with a muffled caw.

_It was probably under a stasis curse_, the Potions Master speculates.

"_Sopor Fera Moribundus_?" Harry whispers, not wanting to startle the calmed creature.

Snape, surprised by the younger wizard's knowledge of the Dark Arts, slowly responds, _Yes… Most likely_.

Harry spots a word carved into the metal stand.

"Hello Diafol," he croons, gradually extending his arm. "Is that your name? Aren't you a handsome fellow." (_Gryffindor…brashness! You know nothing about that creature! If you were unaware, Diafol translates to _demon_ in Welsh._)

"At the moment, y_ou_ have more demonic qualities than this nice, little bird." (_Little!_) "I'll admit; he's on the larger side." (_It's the size of a bloody vulture_!)

The bird closes its eyes and leans forward, rubbing its head against Harry's fingers, almost in apology. Nudging the wizard's palm, the crow places the object in its beak onto the proffered hand.

Harry never replaced Hedwig, instead using the owl Ginny received as a wedding shower gift from her parents. Her owl never liked him, always painfully nipping his fingers. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he had missed the affection.

The younger wizard smiles and gives his thanks to the bird, "See. Nice." A foreign burst of annoyance slips through Harry's mind, and his grin slants with impish delight.

Repositioning the item from his palm to between his index finger and thumb, Harry discerns that it's a silver signet ring, near black from lack of polishing. He taps it with his wand and mutters a quick charm, reversing the oxidation. Bits of black wax remain from when it was last used. It's simple in design. The middle displays the Black Family Coat of Arms, and it is bordered by the family name and motto.

Because of magic, stamping written correspondence with a seal would do little to protect it from tampering. A pureblood family solely uses them as a tool to show their status. Harry knows that his grandfather, Charlus Potter, wore a family ring from a tattered photograph he found.

During the first war, owning such a ring was a symbol of pureblood supremacy, which was associated with Voldemort's politics. Many families had their rings melted and stamped into coinage in defiance.

To free up his hands, Harry sheathes his wand and places the piece of precious metal on his right-middle finger. (_Cygnus wore it on the same finger_.)

Finding a handkerchief in a robe pocket and applying pressure with it over his cut, Harry asks, "What was he like, my grandfather?" (_He was_…s_killed in multiple arts, eloquent, intelligent, and…principled. I can only give you generalizations, since we were only ever acquaintances._)

"No. I appreciate it. You didn't have to tell me anything, and I understand how remembering the past can hurt so…thank you." (_You're…welcome._ _Now…hurry things along._)

Satisfied the bleeding had stopped, Harry pockets the square of cotton. Again, he looks at his left hand, but this time, _really_ seeing it. His heart plummets into his stomach, and an upset, sorrowful countenance reflects off the simple, ring of gold. Harry subconsciously knew he still bore his wedding band. However, the reason he hadn't yet parted with it wasn't because of lingering emotions for Ginny but because his parents had died while in love, and by removing it, it would be like he somehow failed them.

Harry growls and clenches his hands. Locating the fallen objects on the filthy floor, he gathers the scrolls and tucks the chest under his arm.

As soon as he crosses the threshold of the vault, Harry gasps. (_Is that…a solid-gold cauldron? Merlin…the wealth of purebloods is so bloody nauseating._)

"I genuinely agree with you, Sir. Still, it's amazing." (_It's like salt in a wound. If my mother had been born a man and not a woman, her uncle wouldn't have inherited _everything_. The pompous idiot expired without an heir or a will. Per Ministry law, to keep bloodlines intact, an estate that goes into probate can only be given to a person that shares the deceased's surname. Since there were no Princes left, I couldn't legally get permission to adopt the name…and thus why I lived on Spinner's End._)

"I had no idea. Perhaps—" (_Lucius explored every option. It can't be done. If the Dark Lord had been successful, I might have had a chance._)

At Malfoy's name, Harry bites down in…jealousy? "Well, _Sir_, if it makes you feel any better, once we've restored you to life, you can _have_ the bloody gold cauldron…and anything else in here that strikes your fancy." (_Including…you?_) Harry blushes and refuses to answer Snape's tease.

Against the wall of the safe on the left side, stands cherry wood display cases and shelving. Artwork, rare magical ingredients, and antiques sit on the shelves above, while jewelry glitters on black velvet in the cases below. Harry not only identifies priceless Black heirlooms but also what could only be Potter pieces as well. Kluga did indeed do 'a little rearranging.'

An immense desk and tufted leather chair faces the plethora of precious artifacts. To the right, behind the table houses a library filled with black bound books and scrolls. He sighs knowing many of them would probably need to be transferred into Gringotts. House searches conducted by the Ministry are rarer since the war ended, but there's still the chance it could happen.

Harry quickly sets the items in his hands on the desk and goes to the display for a closer inspection. In the niche in front of him, folded and tied with a dark ribbon, lies his invisibility cloak. The last time he glimpsed it, it was hanging on a peg in the main Potter vault.

Twirling the silver band on his finger, Harry locates an open space for it in the case. Chewing his lip, he begins to take it off then hesitates. (_Cease worrying about what others think._)

The younger man at last releases the breath he had been holding and frees his fingers from the signet. (_Harry, top left corner._) Following the older wizard's directions, Harry sharply inhales, recognizing the triangle-shaped bezel. The Potter ring, slightly tarnished but still whole, fills him with awe. What surprises him the most is the cauldron with stir stick on the middle shield of the design. (_Haven't you ever wondered about your surname? Unlike the Prince family, whose origin is evidently connected to the aristocracy, the Potters are descended from Potioneers, who used _pots_ to brew. Although, it seems; the talent has become somewhat…diluted._)

"Professor, have you heard of the Flashbang Potion." (_I haven't had the chance to catch up on my unread issues of _Potions Monthly, _but I assume the function is similar to a Muggle stun grenade, known by the same term_.) Harry chuckles. "Yes! And _I_ developed it." (_You?_) "Me. It's become Auror SOP to use it in large raids. However, it does more than merely daze—it causes lasting deafness, blindness, and muteness unless the antidote is given within forty-eight hours." (_Really… Sounds…interesting. Do you have a sample_?)

"No… Unfortunately, after a particular incident, when an illegal harvesting ring…might have somehow gotten locked into a small closet and couldn't receive the cure in time, the Ministry commenced to rigorously monitor its manufacturing and use.

"In view of the jars I saw filled with all sorts of human organs, including eyes and tongues, I thought it was poetic justice. Their last moments before going to trial and inevitably receiving the Kiss was consumed with fear." The former Death Eater emits a short, low hum. "You don't approve?" (_I think you're working in an environment that's toxic to you. You have this need to avenge every innocent victim you come across—at the cost of yourself. Does what you do give you nightmares?_)

Harry takes a deep breath and nods his head. "One of my recurring dreams is just of a caretaker's closet and hearing it being pounded and scratched from the other side. I can never look away or stop from hearing the sounds." (_Why did you _want_ to become an Auror, in the first place_?)

"I believed it was my destiny; what was expected of me; what I _needed_ to do to survive against Tom. Also, it's would be one of the few ways I could get my sight magically fixed. You know the Ministry strictly forbids permanently altering one's physical appearance with magic. Not even Dumbledore was allowed to correct his eyesight. Hermione was fortunate she got away with it when Madam Pomfrey over-shrunk her teeth. As an Auror, it's permitted under certain circumstances. It still took almost five years for them to sanction my application." (_Your quest to appease your vanity aside. Did you consider any other occupations_?)

"Hey! I didn't want my eyes corrected because of vanity but because my nearsightedness was a weakness! My glasses have been cracked, broken, or lost, during far too many encounters. Without them, I become a _blind_ sitting duck!

"As to other occupations… I thought about becoming a professional Quidditch player, but after attending the World Cup, I didn't want to have to deal with even more…attention." The Potions Master starts to snort but turns it into a cough. (_What else_?)

"Teaching. There was this moment when I was instructing D.A. that I'll never forget. Neville was left standing alone, since none of the other students wanted to be his practice partner. By default, I became his. Step-by-step I elucidated the intent, hand movement, and pronunciation of the Disarming Charm.

"His expression when he caused my wand fly from my grasp," Harry shakes his head and smiles, "It was like I helped him finally discover himself." (_Why didn't you apply to Hogwarts_?) Laughing, the younger man says, "Because if I taught, I would want to teach the Dark Arts and…that wouldn't do for the Chosen One, but…I understand what you're getting at. I need to start doing what makes _me_ happy…"

Harry takes a deep breath, picks up the Potter signet, and pries off his wedding band. Placing the family heirloom on his left middle finger, he wedges down the plain gold ring into the velvet-lined case. (_Progress, Mr. Potter… It can't be… Is that a Laelaps claw?_) Severus breath quavers with reverence (_And an auroch horn?_)

The younger wizard chuckles. "Take your time looking around; let me know if you find anything interesting. Well, that _I_ would find interesting. I'm going to explore the other side."

He traversed the room and maneuvers around the desk to the bookcase. The sweet smell of aged paper calms his nerves. Sliding his fingers against the smooth, leather bindings, he comes to a halt on a random spine. Harry pats his forefinger on it twice, before slipping out the untitled, slender hardback and opening it.

_August 31, 1938_

_Today for my birthday, Father and I went riding all day, just the two of us. It was super—until he said I'm to marry come the holidays. I'm not overly surprised, since Father married Mother when he was twelve._

_I know very little about my intended, but after my relentless questioning, found she's known for her beauty, is privately tutored, and is from a well-respected pureblood line, but that was a given. _

_It's understandable; with our station comes certain responsibilities. As father said, as heir, it's my duty to continue our most noble line. But I'm anxious. What if I don't like her? Mother said I shouldn't worry, that with time I'll get to know her and that love will follow, as it did with her and Father…_

Harry stops reading, lifts his head, and gapes, realizing the shelves aren't occupied with spell books but with private writings. By whom, he wasn't sure, but he had a gut feeling. Excited, Harry scans through the pages, looking for a clue when a passage catches his eye.

_December 23, 1938_

_I met my betrothed. Her name is Druella Rosier, and as Father said, she is quite comely. For the few moments we were able to talk, all she prattled on about was shallow society gossip and what possible names would be best for our soon-to-be, destined child. Keeping with boring Black family tradition, every one of them somehow related to astronomy. Her favorite was Bellatrix. I've always thought Belladonna would be a pretty name. She thought it was horrendous. _

_I spoke to Mother about my reservations about her, but she was hopeless, dreamily talking about how wonderful it will be to hold a baby again._

_Tomorrow we wed. Mother has been saying it's the event of the season. All the pureblood heads will be in attendance. I recognize it's shameful, but I can't wait until all this is over, and I can return to Hogwarts._

With the confirmation of Druella's and Bellatrix' names, Harry knows these volumes were undeniably penned by his grandfather. Hands beginning to shake, he pulls out book after book, hunting for a hint as to who could possibly be his grandmother—and then he spots it.

_June 29, 1955_

_Mother's death still weighs down my soul. When a customer brings an infant into the shop, it's hard not being overcome with sadness. She won't ever be able to see the new babe when it's born. _

_However, my day wasn't all sorrow filled. I encountered the most intriguing young woman today. _

_I had just flipped the store sign to 'Closed,' and was about to bolt the lock, when she yanked the door from my grasp. With her long, scarlet mane blowing about her face like a wildfire, she promptly explained how, while working her first day at the Pensieve shop across the street, she couldn't find the time to visit the apothecary. She said she needed to acquire an order for her brother and was very adamant that it couldn't wait until the following day. _

_I didn't want to be tardy and anger Walburga or Druella, especially with the temper she has while she's expecting, or miss tucking in Bella and Dromeda, but when I found out the woman's brother was Mr. Avery, a close friend of Mr. Rosier, I knew there was no way I could refuse._

_As I carefully prepped and packaged the giant leech brains and Indigo Milkcaps she required, I learnt, like me, she had recently graduated, but from Durmstrang. I inquired why she hadn't attended Hogwarts as her elder brother had, and her verbatim reply, "The curriculum at Hogwarts is now so watered down I'm astonished you haven't yet drowned from ignorance."_

_It was brilliantly refreshing, speaking to a woman who stated her mind—and had one. I couldn't help but laugh, and then, then she smiled, and my heart stilled. I think her eyes, green like the soft, underside of a spring leaf, stole a piece of my soul._

_Before leaving, she never introduced herself. My legs carried me out the door of their own accord; I ran after her, seized her arm, and asked for her name. I claimed it was in case I ever visited her shop, but I think she knew the real reason. After a colorful rebuff, she acquiesced._

_Her name—a beautiful, deadly flower. Azalea._

"Severus?" Harry queries, his chest tight and breath quickening. (_Yes?_) "Did you know an Azalea Avery?" (_Not personally._ _She was the aunt of one of my year mates. I knew her more from her papers. Her focused branch of study was the Mind Arts: Legilimency, Occlumency, memory charms and the like. Why do you ask? Are you reading something of hers?_)

"No, this belonged to my grandfather." He glances at the tall stack of books on the table. "These were his journals. I think he may have had an affair with her. She had red hair and green eyes…" (_So… You truly are a pureblood after all._) "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but it's looking that way."

A flicker of hope fills Harry, and he asks, "Do you know if she's alive?" (_I do not. I _do_ know she wasn't a Death Eater. Remarkable, in light of the fact that her brother was a founding member of the Dark Lord's regime._)

After setting the open book on the desk, Harry turns back around and pulls out a scroll, lovingly secured with a strand of red ribbon. He slides off the silk strand and gently unrolls the parchment.

_December 31, 1955_

_My Dearest Star,_

_Congratulations on the birth of your daughter! After we discussed the Avery tradition of naming daughters after flowers, I never imagined you would actually consider it for yours. Yet, I am so very pleased you did. Narcissa is a lovely name, but how you tempt fate, My Love. Another poisonous blossom too near your heart. _

_Your account of Druella's fit after you refused to name the child Libra was monumental. That Walburga had to cast a curse to knock her out like a crazed werewolf, I have no words._

_I miss you terribly. Kissing your full lips, combing my fingers through your soft auburn hair, and gazing into your endless brown eyes. Your adroit body. The way you bite your bottom lip when you concentrate. The way you play with my fingers when we debate a topic. To be apart from you is like venom in my veins. _

_The New Year can't come any quicker._

_Your Beloved Bloom,  
__Azalea Catherine Avery_

_Harry_, the Potions Master drawls, _go to the back of the vault_.

"But I'm—" (_Trust me. I know you will find it…interesting._)

After gingerly laying down the love letter, the younger wizard ventures deeper into the space. A shimmering light, reflecting off the ceiling seizes his attention. Once he locates the source, an exclamation of happiness reverberates throughout the room.

A silver Pensieve churning with similarly colored memories beckons him. Without hesitation, Harry plunges his face into the cold liquid and starts searching for answers.

_"__Are you sure it's safe to…talk?" Cygnus hears, echoing up from the kitchen._

_"__Yes, everyone's left. My good-for-nothing husband won't be back until late. He's probably once again spending time with that trollop."_

_A trapped breath strangles Cygnus' throat, and an expression of fearful dread plants onto his face. He quickly casts a silencing charm and makes his way down the stone stairwell. Angling his head to the side, he can't see much in the dark cavernous space, but as his eyes adjusts, the room steadily brightens. _

_The spectacle of his wife lying on the great, wooden table, her pale legs draped around a stranger's grey robes, slowly comes into focus. The man's long, black hair tickles her calves as she rubs her heels up and down his back._

_After his dark gloved hand yank's Druella's head back by the hair, he nuzzles his nose into her neck. "She's due when?"_

_The woman gasps, "Soon. When I spotted her on Knockturn, she looked ready to burst like the irritating pustule she is."_

_"__You'll contact me," a zip chatters open, "as soon as Cygnus goes on another one of his fictitious business trips?" She grunts as he slams his rod into her drooling twat._

_"__Yes," She moans…_

Harry's world swirls and he latches on to the next memory.

_"__You're back!" Azalea beams at her lover from the disheveled bed. "What? No treacle tart?" she asks, watching him shut their chamber door empty-handed._

_"__I'm sorry, My Love." He sits down next to her and clasps her hands with his own. "I've happened upon some disturbing news."_

_"__What happened? Are the children alright?"_

_Cygnus smiles tenderly. "Yes, they're safe and sound with family, last-minute holiday shopping."_

_"__My Dear," he places a hand on her warm, round belly while stroking her cheek with the other, "you must seek safety until the time it right. She's plotting. I know it. Druella foresees her reign drawing to a close. She and I have been married almost ten years, and she hasn't produced a male heir. It's within my rights to pursue a divorce."_

_"__I can protect myself from the likes of her," Azalea says with indignation._

_"__From her, I have no doubt, and I'm sure she's wise enough to recognize that fact too, but she's found a wizard that will do her dirty work."_

_"__Do you know who—" _

_"__It was too dark. I couldn't see much. He's a professional criminal." His hands clench, "How can I protect—"_

_"__My brother will aid us."_

_"__Ash can only do so much." His eyes begin to gleam and his voice cracks, "I love you—both of you—too much…"_

_"__Shhh," the radiant redhead pulls him down next to her, "I'll have the wards strengthened. Everything will be fine. If need be, I'll return to Avery Manor." She kisses Cygnus soft lips and smiles reassuringly. _

_Attempting to lighten the mood, he sings, "Only a month away… Have you at last_ _decided on a name?"_

_"__Yes… I have," Azalea flutters her lashes, singing back._

_Cygnus wraps his hands around his lover and starts tickling, "Well, then tell me woman! You've been teasing me for months now."_

_"__Okay!" She laughs uncontrollably. "Stop. Stop! I'll tell you! I'll tell you!" _

_Good-humoredly glaring, she wipes the tears from her cheeks and clears her throat, "As you know, I wanted to choose a name that was unique but held to tradition. First, I had to persuade Ash to allow me access to an unaltered family tree. Didn't want to accidently name our child after a squib or worse—a blood traitor. Then—" Her lover lurches forwards as if he's about to grab her again._

_"__It's Lilia Vale!" She scrambles away, laughing wholeheartedly, "Lilia Vale!" _

_"__Lilia Vale," Cygnus reiterates, feeling it on his tongue. "Lilia Vale Black." An enormous smile fills his face. "It's perfect."_

_The bedroom door bursts open, and it goes dark._

Harry yanks his head from the bowl, gripping its stand so forcefully his knuckles burn. "It's true." (_Azalea was Lily's mother?_) The younger wizard nods. "Her birth name was Lilia Vale Black." (_How did she wind up with the Evans?_) "I don't know, but I intend to find out." (_I'm curious myself, but we've already spent too much time here. We need to start for the Malfoys'. You never know. Purebloods swim in the same circles. Maybe they'll be able to tell you something about your grandmother._)

"You're right." Harry sighs. "I already have enough to process." Striding towards the exit, snatching the safe directions on his way, he asks, "Remember that flying car during my second year?"

_Yes,_ Severus intones, mentally narrowing his eyes.

The younger wizard grins, "You are in for a treat." (_I'm more so expecting a _trick_._) Harry's head falls back in a guffaw, discerning Severus' salacious wordplay. "And I wouldn't want to disappoint, but I don't think I'd ever be able to afford you since you're—priceless."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

The jet-black convertible dips playfully far above a mosaic of green and gold fields as Harry jerks the flying car to the left, narrowly avoiding a flock of birds.

_Potter_, the Potions Master shouts in Harry's mind, _do a better job of controlling this damnable contraption_!

Harry laughs in glee, enjoying the brisk westerly wind as they soar towards Malfoy Manor. "Professor, Jinn manages the ascent, altitude, and descent, and I control which direction we go. You may not be familiar with the term, but it's called _cooperation_." (_I_'_m quite familiar with what you two are doing—and it's called mischief._)

An old, nearly forgotten, glint appears in Harry's emerald eyes, and he veers from their straight trajectory. (What_ are you up to_?)

"How about we show him what we're made of?" the Gryffindor asks the sportster, giving the dashboard a pat. Jinn revs her engine in excitement.

Suddenly, they plummet at a steep angle towards a small Muggle village. (_Potter_…)

Snape's trepidation and growled warning fills the younger wizard's head, and he grins, loving the thrilling sensation of his stomach dipping. "This can't be that bad. You _did_ jump and fly out a window once." (_I was escaping to save my life_, not_ needlessly putting it on the line_. _Also, I always had complete control, unlike now, where my fate is left up to a mute_,_ metal box._)

"_You_ need to work on your trust issues, and I'm not being irresponsible," Harry chuckles, pressing harder on the gas pedal. "See," he tugs at the strap across his chest, "seat belt, on." (_Wherever your self-preservation button is, turn _that _on_.)

Harry's mind flashes back to when Severus had so easily come undone in his mouth before he had given permission while he was bound to a chair in his dream.

"You're insatiable,_ Mr_. _Self_-_Preservation_," the Gryffindor teases. "You'll have to show me where _your_ button is later." (_Count_…_on it_.) Harry shivers and refrains from closing his eyes when he feels an icy caress up his side and around a nipple.

Focusing on the fast approaching ground, the past Seeker nudges the brake pedal with his leather-soled shoe. The sports car smoothly levels out about a story above the terrain, speeding across a picturesque meadow filled with grazing horses. The herd, unaffected by the invisibility enchantment, begin running along below them, neighing and snorting. Zooming over a white-painted fence, they enter the town. Harry maneuvers the car with skill, around and through its narrow lanes lined with ivy-covered buildings.

As they fly down the thoroughfare towards the parish center, Harry's vision begins to blur.

"Sir…" the younger wizard slurs as they barrel towards a timeworn stone church. (_What_?)

Harry, feeling heavy and numb, loses his hold on the steering wheel. (_Stop this daredevilry this instance_… _Potter_? _Potter_!)

Before they can careen into the church's bell tower, the Potions Master uses what magic he has and seizes control of the steering, wrenching the car to the right.

Harry opens his eyes, furrowing his brow. _Why am I standing in my bedroom?_

Two hands grip his arms from behind and spin him round.

"Harry," Snape implores, "Wake up!"

"W-What?"

"Wake. Up!" the Potions Master demands, shaking the younger wizard. "You passed…" Snape's form flickers. "I'm driving…I can't…" He flickers once more and then disappears.

As the room starts to dim and distort, Harry screams out, "Severus!"

Like a giant hand encasing and squeezing his entire body, the room goes completely dark for a second before becoming excruciatingly acute.

Harry is once again in a bedroom, but this time, it's even more opulent than Grimmauld Place. He instantly knows where he is—Malfoy Manor.

Before him are two wizards, both blond, tall—and naked. One man faces away. He has long, fine hair, and Harry can see his body is covered in bruises and lacerations. The beaten wizard kneels before a more youthful, lithe man.

Looking down, the younger blond closes his muddy, hazel eyes, relishing the feeling of superiority at having such a once powerful man sucking his knob, getting to play the role of sadist for once, rather than the victim.

The erotic scene in front of Harry disturbs him on multiple levels, but he can't look away.

Finally, his view alters as he glances down at his body—but it's not his. Instead, what he sees is a startling pale chest, transparent enough to show a myriad of indigo veins, and clawed fingers snaked around an engorged cock. _No_…

Hearing Harry's voice, Voldemort's leaking organ throbs, and his hand painfully chokes the base, staving off an orgasm. As the Dark Lord's gaze returns to the two men, a delighted, opened-maw grin overwhelms his serpentine features.

The older blond, who is more used to receiving pleasure rather than doling it out, unintentionally scrapes his teeth against the length in his mouth.

Clenching his jaw and inhaling a hiss, with both hands, the younger wizard grabs the back of the other wizard's head, shoving himself down the man's throat until he gags with pain. Then he pushes the wizard away, and with a loud crack, slaps him across the face.

Harry gets a clear view of the person's face that had been struck, and a strong sense of satisfaction filters through his consciousness at seeing his longtime enemy suffer. Soon afterwards, he feels ashamed, and later, even worse, when he hears Tom's amused chuckle, having perceived his less than honorable reaction.

"Lucius…," the Dark Lord condemns, "you are proving to be a disappointment yet again. I now find myself wanting my entertainment from elsewhere. Leave me, both of you. And Rune, I think Lucius requires another round of punishment. See to it."

"My Lord," Malfoy's hoarse voice begins, his appearance still drawn from his year-long incarceration, "I—"

"Would you rather…Draco take your place?"

Malfoy hastily bows his head, "No, my Lord, but—"

"Not another word, Lucius," Voldemort's soft voice dangerously reprimands. Pointing towards the exit with a pearlescent talon, he orders, "Escort him to your rooms and bear your penance with some dignity. Go."

Lucius grabs hold of the other blond's left arm, unblemished and uninhabited by the Dark Mark. "Come along, Rune," Malfoy says, forcing a smile.

As they walk away, Harry soon realizes, the younger wizard's body isn't free from Tom's branding. Adorning the man's pert, left arse cheek, a snake tattoo slithers from a human skull.

The slippery sound of Voldemort stroking himself resumes as he watches the wizards leave, soundlessly closing the door behind them.

"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord murmurs, "It feels like ages since your last visit. Unable to sleep of late? Or have you been too busy?"

The Gryffindor remains silent. When Tom refocuses on his thick member, pumping his sensitive, newly created skin up and down, Harry wishes he could shut his eyes, or better yet, wake up.

"I do so enjoy our chats, even though they tend to be one sided." The dark wizard breathily chuckles, "It's like having a dog—but unfortunately without the unwavering loyalty."

Voldemort's tongue lolls from his lipless mouth, like an eager, hungry animal, as he fondles their mental link. "Speaking of loyalty… You know…Dumbledore was always a liar, a manipulator. At least, I've been honest about my intentions. It's fitting he died at the hand of one he trusted. Don't you think, Harry?"

The younger wizard refuses to be baited even as the Dark Lord's magic seeps across their connection, tempting his own.

"What about you did he hold close to the chest and take to his grave; I wonder… I've known him since I was child, and from personal experience, I can assure you he did.

"When I was younger, he was aware that I already despised Muggles and kept me ignorant of my family's disgusting past. He was afraid that if I found out the truth, I would run away from the Wizarding world, and he would no longer be able to keep a watchful eye on me.

"It wasn't until I was much older that I learned my mother had lived a lifetime of abuse, both physical and mental, from her own family. She found herself pregnant and alone, and not one wizard or witch offered her help; she was _powerless _and was forced to seek the aid of _Muggles_," Tom sneers. "Her keeping me would have condemned us to the same fate she had already endured at the hands of her mad and depraved brother. That anyone—that _he_—judged her…"

Before Dumbledore was murdered, he had informed Harry of Tom Riddle's past, so it isn't hard for the young wizard to ignore much of what the Dark Lord was saying. However, hearing it and _feeling_ it from Tom's perspective, leaves the teenager even more unsure. He remembers the headmaster had said Voldemort was capable of only selfish emotions—but Harry can clearly feel that isn't the case; which proves that either Dumbledore was wrong or that he was a liar just as Tom has repeatedly told him.

The Dark Lord sighs, "But no one is without their faults, Harry."

Moaning, Tom, thankfully, closes his eyes for a moment, but the sticky beat of his hand can still be heard. "The old fool and I aren't so different, but unlike him, _I_ wasn't a coward—and neither was my mother," he finishes saying with a snarl.

Harry couldn't resist commenting, _The Headmaster said you fear death_.

"Yes, I fear death," Voldemort nods his head, "but that doesn't make me a coward. Death steals. Power is the only thing that can circumvent it. I crave power; I need it. I need time if I'm to achieve my many pursuits." More of Tom's dark magic trickles into the struggling Gryffindor, and the younger wizard can't help but moan.

Thrusting his lean hips up from his splayed, silken robes, the Dark Lord groans in pleasure. "I wish I didn't have to end you, Harry; I really do."

Voldemort's breathing becomes more shallow and his movements more frantic. Harry, slowly drowning in Tom's magic, feels trapped and helpless because he can't escape how much he wants more of it.

Finally, in Parseltongue, the Dark Lord commands, "Say my name when you come."

_No_, the Gryffindor shouts but then a pulse of power so seductive and pleasurable bursts through every one of Harry's nerve endings, and Tom's name falls from Harry's lips as searing waves of ecstasy prevail throughout his body.

As hot spurts of cream drench the inside of his trousers and low moans vibrate in his throat, a hard impact jostles Harry's consciousness. By the time Jinn skids to a crooked halt, the young wizard is fully awake and filled with self-loathing, embarrassment, and aggravation, comprehending what had happened. With sharp movements, he quickly performs a cleaning charm.

_At least one of us had an enjoyable trip_, the Potions Master condescends, his voice sounding worryingly faint.

"I'm sorry!" Harry yells, his anger and concern growing, "Hermione said loss of consciousness was one of the _rarer_ side effects and that my symptoms would be gone within twenty-four hours. I would never have flown if I thought I could blackout! When I passed out in the drawing room, I assumed it was because of the fight with the dark wizard or because of emotional shock!" (_Calm yourself, Mr. Potter._ _Yes_, _the more common side effects do cease after a day but the rarer ones…tend to linger_.)

"I _didn't_ know," Harry glowers. Severus sighs weakly. (_I gathered as much_.) "Hermione was swamped with work and must have forgotten… I'm truly sorry. I—" (_No harm, no foul, Potter. Things would have been easier if this bloody machine wouldn't have refused to land anywhere except the destination you had mentioned. You still are able to surround yourself with others, who are exceedingly, strike that, _annoyingly_ loyal. I was forced to nearly deplete all my magical energy, making sure we didn't run out of fuel over the Atlantic_.)

"If you require more, we can—" (_Don't_. _Tempt_. _Me_. _You've almost died how many times today_?_ I'm sure by now Death, himself, has become sick of you crying wolf. We should wait a while before carrying out another transfer. Acquiring my magical credits from Draco is our current priority. Although, since I'm too weak to materialize, it'll be more difficult convincing him of my existence, but I'm sure you_'_ll manage._)

Looking down the impeccable driveway and past the wrought-iron gates, Harry could see the front entrance to Malfoy Manor and groans. He had just relived a disconcerting past memory which took place in the very building he would soon be entering. He would be meeting close blood relatives he didn't realize he had until today, _and_ he would be seeing Draco again.

"Let's get this over with," Harry mutters. (_Couldn't agree with you more_.)

Harry eases the purring car towards the gate, flanked by tall, imposing hedges. He raises his wand about to cast a spell against the wards to get the occupants attention when the metal gateway began to open like welcoming arms.

"Huh, someone must have already seen us," the younger wizard smiles at their luck. Harry feels the Potions Master's amusement and continues to drive towards the regal entranceway. On the way, he breaks for an elegant, albino peacock strutting across the narrow lane.

The Gryffindor strides up the stairs to the gilded and intricately carved door. After self-consciously fixing his appearance, he swallows and lifts his thumb towards the doorbell. As his finger presses the silver button, the front door opens with a swish of air, revealing an unexpectedly well-kept house-elf.

"How can Brownie be helping you, sir?" a diminutive, female elf asks in a squeaky yet confident voice.

"I need to speak with Mr. Malfoy; I mean Draco… I need to speak with Draco Malfoy," Harry finally manages to say.

"_Who_ needs to see me?" Draco, wearing charcoal robes and a lavender blue shirt, steps into sight.

The blond's grey eyes express puzzlement, but his lips tilt up in appreciation. "Hello," the Slytherin drawls out, "and whom may I ask are…" Draco's voice trails off, and he presses his eyes shut for a second, before stepping forward to get a better view.

Gasping in recognition, he shakes his head in disbelief, "P-Potter?"

A huge grin spreads across Harry's face. "Hello, Draco…or should I say—cousin."

The blond sneers. "Distantly, Potter and _don't_ remind me." His dark-golden eyebrows crinkle. "How are you here? I know father would prefer another day in Azkaban than having to spend a minute in your vicinity, and only he could have admitted you across the property line."

Before Harry can reply, a woman shrieks. "No!"

With the sound of shoes racing down a marble-floored corridor, a deep, commanding voice yells, "Get away from the door, Draco! Quickly!"

Hearing the fear in his parents' voices, the handsome Slytherin obeys immediately, moving towards the side.

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy assume his vacated spot, wands drawn.

As a strong, fall breeze causes Harry's long, dark tresses to whip around his face, he smiles cheerily, keeping his body language relaxed. "Good afternoon."

Expecting to see one of Voldemort's most faithful followers, Mr. Malfoy's eyes turn into slits, but he doesn't lower his wand.

"Perhaps the house wards are malfunctioning," Mrs. Malfoy says slowly. "Three heads of households were announced and only one man stands before us."

"Impossible," Lucius grits. "The wards _clearly_ said Avery. He was the very last of his line, and you and I both know he couldn't have children. He must be trying to mask his signature and appearance. Although, I can still see…traces of his features." Squinting in confusion, he goes on to say, "He _does_ look quite familiar."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up, hearing his grandmother's surname, and he looks beseechingly towards Draco's dawning face. Snape's loudening chuckles rumble through the Gryffindor's mind.

"Father…" Draco begins but is cut off.

"Not. Now. Draco," the older wizard barks.

"Lucius…love," Narcissa inquires, "which houses did the wards announce again?"

"Avery, Black, and Potter," he spat with derision.

"Father," Draco deadpans, rolling his eyes, "It's Harry Potter."

"Stop being ridiculous, Draco. You know the perimeter protections only allow purebloods through the gates uninvited."

The witch, no longer consumed with fright, habitually inspects the visitor's attire. Narcissa's hand quickly covers her mouth as her lungs suck in a startled breath. In complete shock, she stares at the Black family ring on the wizard's right hand. Soon she realizes the man also wears other family mementos her doting father had once owned.

"What is it, dear?" The Malfoy patriarch asks, apprehension causing his voice to soften.

"Who. Are. You?" Narcissa shouts, her decorum breaking, the tumult of past painful emotions too much, "Thieving from my family!"

Draco gently sets a hand on her arm. "Mother, it _is_ Harry Potter. I saw him in person but a few days ago. The most current photo of Harry used by all the publications was captured years ago when he was still a teenager. Imagine him older and without the crazy hair and stupid glasses."

The Gryffindor takes a step forward, also wanting to comfort and reassure his…aunt, but Lucius threateningly flicks his wand and he stops.

Looking at Harry's superb appearance, his robes and hair billowing in the wind, Draco's mouth goes dry. Swallowing hard, Draco huskily states, "The wind. It's hard to see your face."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry slips his hair behind his ears, emphasizing his adult, aristocratic jawline and cheekbones, "I recently found out my maternal grandparents were your father Cygnus Black and Azalea Avery…brother of an Ash Avery. My mother's true name wasn't Lily Evans but Lilia Black. I'm hoping, with your help, I can figure out how that came to be."

Trying to ease the tension, Harry grins. "And as I'm sure you already know, my paternal grandparents were Charlus Potter and Dorea Black. As Aunt Walburga's portrait now likes to say, I'm a Black through-and-through. You're…family. You saved my life, and I will always honor that."

Momentarily speechless, the entire Malfoy family stares at Harry, who looks every bit like the noble pureblood he is.

After uttering a frustrated growl, Lucius hisses, "What trickery is this? It. Is. Not possible. Harry Potter was nothing but a do-gooder _Gryffindor_! A wizard with such a pedigree would have been sorted into Slytherin!"

"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I requested otherwise. At the time, I didn't believe it would be in my best interest." Harry slyly smiles, admiring how much the elder Malfoy's appearance has improved since the war. (_You do have a one track mind, Potter_.)

"Still married a blood-traitor," Mr. Malfoy sneers.

"Divorced," Harry retorts sharply. "So," he asks, raising his eyebrows in expectation, bringing attention to the faint scar on his forehead, "are you going to properly invite your nephew (_Plus one_.) in for a visit or not?"

After an awkward moment of silence, Narcissa answers, "Of course…Mr. Potter. We do already have guests, but I'm sure you'll be most welcome."

As he crosses the threshold, he politely requests, "Please call me, Harry. What would you like for me to call you, Mrs. Malfoy?"

She pauses a moment and then replies, "Aunt…Cissa would be appropriate."

The Gryffindor's bright, green eyes fill with warmth. "Aunt Cissa it is, then."

"Darlings," she says, eyeing Lucius and Draco, "go ahead and show…Harry to the Garden Parlor. I'll see to more refreshments being arranged." Ever the gracious hostess, Mrs. Malfoy looks at her supposed nephew, "Anything in particular you like for Elevenses?"

"Treacle tart and a good loose leaf on the bitter side. Oh, and some…dark chocolate cake, if you have any." (_If you want my forgiveness_, _you'll have to do better than _cake…_although it is a start_.) Lips quivering, Harry tries not to snicker.

Studying Harry's face a second too long, Narcissa bobs her head once, "Come along, Brownie," and the layers of hand-painted silk around her body rustle as she strolls away down a side hall.

"Mr. Potter," Draco calls, gesturing for Harry to follow him and his father.

"_Mr._ Potter," Harry grins, amused.

"What do you expect?" The Slytherin's eyes brim with repressed humor and…something more. "You went from being a mongrel to a thoroughbred."

The sound of Lucius loudly clearing his throat echoes off the lofty foyer walls. "We don't want to keep our other visitors waiting."

Harry walks between the two blond wizards, freely admiring their profiles when he notices a familiar dark passage. The Gryffindor abruptly halts. Motioning with his hand, he inquires, "Isn't that way faster?"

"We would never take a guest through the servant's corridors, Mr. Potter." Lines appear on the older wizard's forehead. "How is it that—"

Harry taps a finger to his temple and then looks pointedly at Lucius' aristocratic face. "The link I had with To…Voldemort and Nagini." His gaze roams down the austere man's tailored robes and back up to the man's eyes, the same rich blue as his attire. "If these walls could talk…" (_They wouldn't be talking_. _They'd be screaming_. _Stop_. _Antagonizing_.)

Draco regards the two men with a frown.

Lips twitching in discomfort, the Malfoy Head of House swallows, nose flaring, and resumes his long stride down the ostentatious hall, leaving them behind.

"What was that about?" The Malfoy heir asks.

Harry stares unblinking at Draco. "Do you really want to know?"

The blond opens his mouth, lungs expanding—but no words come out. Instead Draco licks his lips and slowly exhales. Shaking his head, without a backwards glance, he heads further down the hall.

Harry tilts his head to the side, enjoying the view. (_Will you _cease_ ogling my godson_?) Sighing, he jogs to catch up.

When the Gryffindor reaches Draco's side, the Slytherin nonchalantly states, "Your…condition has vastly improved since the last time I saw you."

As Harry watches Lucius round a corner further up ahead, his arm swinging his snake-headed walking stick by his side like a threatening baton, the Gryffindor snorts and then smiles, "Yes, it has… I wanted to thank you for the mints. They worked brilliantly." (_Ask him if he used dried golden toad eggs as the base ingredient._)

"Are you needing…more?" Draco coldly queries. "Is that why you wanted to see me?"

"No, actually… I've started treatment."

The blond's icy demeanor thaws and a bright smile illuminates his face. "Really?"

"Yes. Although, the side effects of the detox have been a real pain in my arse." Harry reluctantly inquires, "I was wondering… Did you use…dried golden toad eggs as the base ingredient?" (_If he did, the better choice would be dried Grindylow tentacles_. _It would produce the same results for a fraction of the cost_.)

Draco arches a brow. "Of course I can't say, proprietary recipe and all that. Thinking about changing careers? The potions market can be very lucrative—when you don't donate all your recipes to the Ministry."

"No, I was just curious…but if you _did_…perhaps dried Grindylow tentacles would be a better choice? _And_ it would greatly increase your profit margins."

"Speaking hypothetically…wouldn't the tentacles react negatively under pressure?"

Harry, realizing the answer on his own, grins. "That typically would be the case, but since liquid isn't used as the binder, it shouldn't be a problem." (_Very good_…_Harry_.) A shiver runs down his spine, hearing the praise.

"That's _true_…" The pale blond nods in thought, his hair shimmering from the light emanating from the multiple silver candelabras floating in the corridor.

As they turn a corner, the backs of their hands touch and magic floods into Harry. Both wizards gasp, freezing in place, wanting to collapse to their knees from the unexpected pleasure.

"I apologize." Harry grips his wrist as if his hand had been burnt. "My magical stores have never been this low before."

"You must be more careful," the Slytherin quietly warns. "Not even your name could protect you if you were found guilty of magical theft. Why are you so low, anyway?"

"Yeah, about that… I'll need to talk to you about it in private."

Draco raises a brow. "Really…cousin."

"Not to do what you're thinking." Harry huffs. "About something else." Severus snorts, his irritation growing from their incessant flirtations.

"Why not tell me now?" the Slytherin smoothly says, looping his arm around Harry's.

The two wizards recommence walking arm-in-arm; both surprised that it feels like it is the most natural thing in the world.

Harry chuckles. "Well…it might take some time…and isn't for everyone's ears.

Draco hums with interest as the two approach glass French doors. Like the front gates, they effortlessly part, a burst of sweet floral air rushing out towards them.

At first, Harry thinks he's stepped outdoors, until he sees the soaring wall and ceiling of windows. Trees tower throughout the room; their branches, shading various lounge areas, sway in a pleasant wind. Flowering vines crawl up glass support columns, and the sound of bubbling water accompanies the sounds of exotic songbirds high up above.

From the corner of his eye, Harry catches sight of a vibrant green streak flying over the manicured indoor garden and whips his attention in its direction. What appears to be a miniature Welsh Green dragon swoops low, spirals, and then flaps its soft leathery wings, gaining altitude.

Along with a cute, comical roar from the airborne serpent, the Gryffindor hears a jubilant squeal of joy.

"Uncle Hare!"

Harry looks down and sees Teddy, arms outstretched, racing towards him. Unwinding himself from Draco's warm body, he shouts his godson's name in delight, before squatting to greet the fast approaching boy. The energetic child jumps into his godfather's open arms, and Harry stands, tossing the little boy into the air before setting him back on solid ground.

Not giving his godfather a chance to speak, the five-year-old begins to chatter away. "Do you like my new toy?" He points towards the whirling dragon. "Draco said it's an ant-eek, but that I can have it. But Grandmother said I can only play with it here since there's not enough room at the inn." He looks up hopefully, eyes glimmering. "Can I play with it at your new house? I promise to be very, very careful, and Kreacher can make sure nothing breaks."

With his hand, Draco ruffles the young boy's hair and smiles, "A Slytherin in the making."

"I don't see why you can't play with it in one of the unused rooms," Harry grins, amused by Teddy's antics, "but you know I'll need to double-check with your grandmother to make sure it's okay."

A little disappointed, Teddy groans, "Alright." With each of his tiny hands, he grabs onto one of the older wizard's and tugs. "Grandmother and Auntie Cissy said we could start eating when you arrived." The little boy guides them straight ahead to a comfortable sitting area.

Lucius sits stiffly in an armchair, worrying the head of his walking stick with a thumb. In a loveseat, Andromeda and Narcissa, relax next to each other, chatting and sipping tea.

Harry knows the two sisters had made amends after the war, but he's never seen them together until now. His heart swells, seeing so much of his family in one place.

Both witches, comely and still considered young in the Wizarding world, move alike with a poised elegance; yet, besides their creamy, pale complexions, their coloring is completely different. With warm brown hair and honey-colored eyes, Mrs. Tonks, the older of the two, takes more after their father, Cygnus, and with blonde hair and clear blue eyes, Mrs. Malfoy more resembles their mother, Druella.

Teddy runs to Andromeda. "Grandmother! Grandmother, may I have some cake now?"

"Yes, go sit down and Brownie will serve you." The stately widow says.

Smiling, Teddy's grandmother gracefully rises to her feet, "What a pleasant surprise, Harry."

Harry kisses one of her cheeks. "It's lovely to see you too, Andromeda."

"Shouldn't it be Aunt Dromeda, now? My sister has told me quite the tall tale, but by the looks of you, I think that, quite fantastically, it may be true. It's astounding how easy it is to overlook the obvious until it's pointed out." She turns to her sister. "Do you see his brow and chin, Cissy? Spitting image of father's."

Everyone had seen how cozy Harry and Draco were when the doors had opened, and eyes sparkling, Andromeda looks back and forth between the young men, "It's clear you already seem to be making up for lost time." Both men proceed to blush.

Mrs. Tonks' rigid bearing cracks and she chuckles. Narcissa hides her lips, drinking a sip of her tea, and Lucius glances away, caught staring.

Andromeda reaches for Harry's right hand and brings it closer so she can study the ring. Voice heavy with emotion, she asks, "Wherever did you find it?"

"Why don't we all get settled and then I'll explain." the Gryffindor suggests.

After acquiring a cup of tea and selecting a few items for his plate, Harry takes the last available seat next to Draco. He shuts his eyes and places a fork-full of gooey chocolate cake in his mouth and grins when he feels Snape's pleasure.

Once he enjoys a few more bites of the delicious food, Harry swallows a gulp of his beverage before clearing his throat. Everyone, except Teddy, who was enthusiastically finishing off his cake, redirect their attention towards him, even Severus, who's been unusually quiet. The Gryffindor eyes the young, impressionable boy with concern.

"Brownie," Mrs. Tonks calls.

A second later a pop sounds. "Yes, mistress?" a high-pitched voice asks.

"Please accompany Teddy outside to play?"

"Come along, young master," the house-elf encourages. She snaps her fingers, and the small toy dragon follows.

After his godson leaves with a few biscuits stuffed into his pockets, Harry proceeds to describe how he had fallen onto Walburga's portrait, which had revealed his pureblood status; then he explains how he had found his grandfather's private office—prudent not to divulge its location—and subsequently his journals.

"I'm sorry you had to learn of your father's affair this way." The Gryffindor says, feeling the need to apologize for his grandfather's behavior.

Mrs. Malfoy laughs. "It's not surprising. Arranged marriages, dalliances, and affaires de coeur are the norm for purebloods, Harry. It really is a pity neither Draco nor you are a woman; a union between our houses would have made a strong alliance, but you're young. You both can have fun for now…and possibly later if you're discreet."

The Malfoy heir chokes on his tea. "Mother, _please_."

"What? I'm only speaking the truth, Draco."

Surprisingly, Lucius joins Harry in chuckling at Draco's embarrassment.

Andromeda, who lost the love of her life and still has no desire to find another, shakes her head at her sister's words. "You boys ignore her. If you follow your heart _and_ heed your head, you'll find love, and if you're lucky, your soul mate."

Harry sighs. "If only it were as simple as you make it sound, Aunt Dromeda," A tiny closed-mouth smile appears on his face when he realizes he called her his aunt for the first time.

"I heard about you and Ginny, Harry." Mrs. Tonks says in sympathy, "Losing love, no matter how it happens, wounds the soul deeply."

"If you don't mind me asking," Lucius' arrogant voice speaks up for the first time, "why _did_ you divorce the little blood-traitor?"

"I almost killed her." Harry says wryly, calmly taking another sip from his cup. "She's still recovering at St. Mungo's as we speak."

Everyone pales.

"Harry…" Andromeda murmurs in disbelief.

"There's a lot more to it—it wasn't _intentional_."

Draco harrumphs. "I've heard _that_ before."

"It _wasn't_," Harry denies again, unable to make the grin on his face disappear. "Okay… I'll admit I _was_ trying to kill you. Sorry about that."

The young blond rolls his eyes. "No one believed me when I told them, even my own classmates."

"There's a lot about me people don't know. Merlin, there's a lot _I_ don't even know about myself." Gathering up his courage, Harry finally asks, "Do any of you know if my grandmother is alive?"

After a long moment of silence, Mrs. Malfoy says in a near whisper, "I'm sorry, but I don't think she is."

"Why do you say that, Cissa?" Andromeda inquires.

"Something… I recall from the day mother died."

Mrs. Tonks sneers, "What's worth remembering about that worthless woman? Good riddance."

Seeing questioning faces, Andromeda further elucidates, "Mother _hated_ us. Each one of us was the physical embodiment of her failure as a wife, showing the world her inability to produce a male heir. She could be very cruel, but she was very clever, making sure to never leave a mark. Bella usually received the brunt of it to protect us. Because of mother, she vowed to never have children. She said it wouldn't be right to bring such innocence into the world."

Harry's eyes widen. _I can't believe Bellatrix and I could share a common belief_…_but I shouldn't be too surprised—she _was_ family._

"Yes…mother was very cruel," Narcissa says with a faraway expression. She closes her eyes. "I've tried to forget what little I do remember."

"Aunt Cissa," Harry says with concern, "If this brings back unpleasant memories, please don't—"

"No, I want to," she reassures her nephew then pauses a moment. "It was so long ago… I was no older than Teddy… I remember father and mother were having another fight. He wanted to know where someone was, and mother was screaming that she was dead." Mrs. Malfoy shudders and shakes her head. "I don't remember anything after that.

With tears in her eyes, Andromeda wraps an arm around her younger sister's shoulders and then says, "After mother died, father was never the same. I grew to disdain him; I couldn't understand how he could betray us and pine for such a _foul_ woman." Mrs. Tonks smiles, salty drops rolling down her cheeks, "But it wasn't her he missed; it was your grandmother, Harry."

"Wish I could have met her," the Gryffindor regretfully sighs.

Lucius taps his chin and says, "Perhaps you can… There's likely a portrait of her in Avery manor. If what you've said is true, you should be able to easily pass through the blood wards and enter."

"My grandfather wrote about the estate in his journals but not where it was."

"Actually, it borders my property. Avery manor is located next to Avebury, an ancient magical site."

Harry slowly nods, the view of mammoth stones from the window in his grandfather's office now making sense.

The striking Gryffindor smiles radiantly, causing the breaths of both Malfoy men to hitch.

Turning more towards his cousin, Draco places his right hand on his left knee, his fingertips brushing against Harry's trousers. "If you like…I can show you where it is."

Grinning in challenge, the Gryffindor asks, "Have you ever driven a Muggle car before?"


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Draco stares like he's looking at the Giant Squid ballet dancing rather than an innocuous motor vehicle, "Tell me; w_hy_ must _I_…drive?"

Unscrewing the car's fuel tank cap, Harry gnaws on his bottom lip, "Because I can't."

With a light, mocking voice, Draco says, "Hard to believe since you _did_ fly it here."

The Gryffindor grimaces, "Almost crashed on my way over." He inserts the tip of his wand into the dark hole, wafting the sweet, heavy odor of petrol. Reciting the conjuration charm he learnt from Mr. Weasley, Harry begins refilling the near empty tank.

The blond glances past his fluttering bangs. "You're not doing a very good job of convincing me to pilot this…mode of transportation." Tucking long stray strands of hair behind an ear, he asks, "Wouldn't you rather fly on a broom instead? Our collection is quite extensive. Some of them aren't the fastest, but the craftsmanship is stunning. Would you like to take a look…try one out?"

Harry sighs with regret, the opportunity sounding amazing. "Draco, I really wish I could take you up on your offer, I really do, but the reason I can't is because during my flight…I sort have realized that I'm still susceptible to one of the rarer side effects of my detox."

Draco looks contemplative for a moment before his eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, "You couldn't have passed out, did you?"

"Yeah," Harry nods with a rueful grin.

"While. In. The. Air?"

"What can I say?" The Gryffindor's smile widens. "I must have a guardian angel." Harry hears Snape snort, but the older wizard doesn't comment further.

"And you can't apparate either," Draco dryly states with a long exhale.

"Learning to fly Jinn won't be any harder than learning to fly a broom," Harry reassures, shutting the fuel door with a fond pat.

Draco cocks an eyebrow. "Jinn?"

The svelte sportster answers with a sweet honk.

"See," Harry smiles, "She likes you."

"She?" The blond folds his arms over his chest, resembling his proud father. "I must say, it's been awhile since I've ridden in one of those."

"Really?" Harry faces Draco. "I thought you were equal opportunity on that front. I mean…you've been on-again, off-again with Parkinson since I can remember."

"My, my, cousin," the Slytherin teases, "I didn't know you were one for society gossip or…was it only news about me that interested you?"

A faint blush tints the Gryffindor's cheeks at Draco's astute question. Instead of answering, he walks around the blond and opens the driver side door. While holding it ajar with one hand, he stretches out his arm in invitation.

"Such a pureblood gentleman, Harry," Draco ribs. "My heart's all a flutter."

"Oh, shut it and get in already," the Gryffindor huffs in exasperation, grinning.

The Slytherin laughs but complies, bouncing a few times, getting a feel for the cushioned interior, "Really, Harry, you should know best about having to keep up appearances. Pansy and I are great friends, and we'll have a roll about on occasion, but even I can admit, at times, her portrayal as my _caring_ love interest can be a tad over the top.

"As mother hinted at earlier," the blond's gaze follows Harry as he gracefully rounds the front of the car, "eventually, I'll need to marry and father an heir, but I still have a few more years before my parents start getting antsy, and I'll need to make a decision."

The Gryffindor slides into the passenger seat. "Well then, I'm sure taking necessary precautions isn't a new concept for you. Safety belt on," he orders.

Smirking, Draco finds the strap and tugs, but before it's long enough, it locks. He tries again but without success.

"Here, let me show you," the Gryffindor offers. "There's a trick to it."

Harry leans closer to the blond, once again appreciating the wizard's woodsy cologne. Feeling the heat radiating from Draco's body, he slowly and steadily pulls the latch across the other man's lap and clicks it into place.

They swallow, realizing their close proximity to each other and momentarily get caught in the other's gaze.

The Gryffindor husks, "There, now you're all safe."

"Even from you?" the Slytherin says in a soft voice.

With a sly grin, Harry answers, "Of course."

The blond snorts, "You've fooled so many into thinking you're a lion when in reality you've always been a snake."

Harry hums in agreement. "Takes one to know one, and I know what you're up to."

"Hmm, and what's that?" The blond blinks unhurriedly.

"You're not doing this out of the kindness of your heart." Harry glides a finger up Draco's cheek, causing the wizard's mouth to part. "This is a test to see if I'm truly the Avery Head of House. The question is," he retraces the path of his finger down the length of the fair-skinned blond's face, "what do I get if I pass?"

Breath skipping, the Slytherin's eyes close for a second. "What did you have in mind?"

Without saying another word and going against his better judgment, Harry captures his cousin's chin and does what he's wanted to do for years; he descends on the Slytherin's mouth, tasting lemon and honey. A pulse of magic from Draco rams into him, eliciting a moan of pleasure from both Harry and the Potions Master. A moment later, intense irritation floods Harry's mind, and he breaks away, panting.

After a hard gulp, Harry clears away the pale, gold hair covering his cousin's ear and whispers, "If you didn't know…I've been known to lie, cheat, and steal to get what I want."

Shivering, Draco chuckles. "So you're a typical Slytherin."

Harry smiles brightly, "Guess so." Glancing towards the manor, he sees Lucius looking out a window and waves.

"You are insufferable," the blond murmurs, shaking his head. "So are you going to show me how to drive this blasted thing or not?"

After explaining how the gear lever and multiple pedals work, Harry warns, "Remember, as Jinn starts to climb don't accelerate too fast."

Gripping the steering wheel tightly with one hand, his other on the gearstick, Draco gives a bobbling nod. "Okay, I'm ready." The blond follows his cousin's earlier instructions, slowly releasing the clutch as he gently presses on the accelerator.

The Slytherin's lungs freeze mid-breath when he feels the car leave the ground.

"You're doing great," Harry encourages, "okay, now clutch down, good…and shift." He places his hand on Draco's, helping him switch to the next gear. "Ease off the clutch and ease on the gas."

Once the revving of the engine evens out and the chance of them stalling in mid air passes, Harry exhales in a loud, joyful whoop. "Brilliant job, Draco! Just brilliant!"

Grey eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun, the blond grins broadly, "You're right; it wasn't so bad."

Harry relaxes in his seat and turns to admire his cousin. "It usually takes Muggles quite a number of times to figure it out."

Draco glances at him with disdain, "Well, I'm _not_ a Muggle, and…you were a decent enough instructor. How many times did it take _you_?"

Chuckling, the Gryffindor says, "The same as you." Harry's brow lifts. "I'm surprised you still have such prejudices against them when you seem to prefer their ingredients in your cologne."

The Slytherin scowls and decides to turn the tables. "So are you going to tell me what you couldn't tell me earlier?"

"Umm," Harry laughs nervously, "I think we should wait until we're on solid ground before I do that."

"What? Wanting to start a new world order? You know better than most what happened to the last wizard that tried…"

The Gryffindor laughs aloud. "If I did want to pursue world domination, would you join the cause?"

"Depends…" Draco simpers, "would I be able to keep the car?"

Harry chuckles and shakes his head, "But…you being my loyal subject and I your generous lord, I might be inclined to let you borrow it from time to time."

His heart speeding up, the Slytherin asks, "You _are_ joking? Right?"

"Why? Can't you tell?"

Draco frowns. "No, and it's bloody unnerving."

"Well…" Harry's voice trails out, "I'm _not_ joking."

"What…" Draco says in incredulity, knuckles going white as he grips the steering wheel.

The Gryffindor with all seriousness affirms, "I'll gladly share Jinn with you on occasion _if_ you swear…you'll let me try out brooms from your collection in the future."

Watching the blond's look of dread turn into indignation, Harry bursts into laughter.

"You know," The Slytherin glares, "you're _still_ a right git."

With mischievous humor sparkling in his eyes, the Gryffindor says, "I'm glad you agree—just because I'm now a pureblood and no longer the son of a Muggle-born—doesn't change who I've always been."

Draco groans, "Bloody Gryffindors ruined you; you remain much too altruistic, but thankfully, bad habits can be _unlearned_."

"Are you going to school me?"

"What is it with you and your student-teacher metaphors? Talking about tests and passing earlier and now schooling. Have a fetish for authority figures, do you?"

Harry's face turns bright red.

"Ho, ho!" The blond exclaims with hooting laughter. "You do!"

"You…have…_no_ idea." The Gryffindor mutters, thinking of Severus and how he was starting to miss hearing the Potions Master's silky voice.

Worried about the man's ongoing silence, Harry wishes he could speak to the wizard. With Tom, he'd always been asleep when they communicated mind-to-mind, but even though he's awake, the Gryffindor decides it wouldn't hurt to give it a try.

_Sir_? Nothing. _Hello, sir, can you hear me_? Still nothing.

Pondering, Harry recalls what the Potions Master said about their link. He concludes that by now their connection should be strong enough for him to speak directly to Severus, regardless of his state of consciousness. His mind starts to wander, reminiscing about his earlier shower and glancing at Draco, he chuckles to himself. _I wonder if Severus would be up for a threesome._ (_Absolutely_! _Not_!)

Harry gasps, starting in his seat. _You can hear me_? Nothing once more. _Bugger it all_!

"What's the matter," Draco asks, concerned.

His line-of-sight jerking around to the Slytherin, he stammers, "Oh, I…uh…caught myself…daydreaming." The Gryffindor beams, realization hitting him, "Yeah, I was daydreaming… Um, sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Grinning, the blond teases, "Were you daydreaming about moi?"

"Well, not _just_ about you," Harry smiles, waggling his eyebrows.

"How it _pains_ me to hear you say that." The Slytherin shoves an imaginary knife into his heart. "Whenever Severus was summoned by the Dark Lord, my house would have the most brilliant parties." Draco laughs, "I mean what else would a group of hormone-filled, unsupervised teenagers do? Play Exploding Snap. I mean really."

"Yes," Harry says in earnest, "that's exactly what we did in Gryffindor; we also played a lot of Wizard's Chest."

The blond groans. "You're jesting again, right?"

"No…"

Draco glances up towards the endless blue sky, "Exploding Snap? Wizard's Chest? Why ever for?"

"As you know," Harry glimpses pointedly at his cousin, "when Severus witnessed a transgression from your House, he tended to look the other way. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was a different story. Perhaps it was because her father was a Muggle minister, I'm not sure, but she's a quintessential prude.

"From what I heard, if she caught you snogging—just snogging—she would give a dry, three-hour lecture about fraternizing with the opposite sex—which included transfigured, anatomically correct—"

"No! Stop! You've made your point." Draco shivers with revulsion as Harry chuckles darkly.

After a few moments of silence, the Slytherin asks, "When did you start calling Professor Snape, Severus?"

"I…don't remember the exact date," Harry stumbles to say, kicking himself for the slip. He of course can't tell the complete truth and announce he's been screaming the professor's name in ecstasy since he was a young teenager. "I felt comfortable enough to address him as such… after I received his bequeathment—which is part of the reason I needed to speak with you, actually."

Draco hums in thought, dropping the subject—for the time being.

Altering his mental focus until he feels light and faraway, the Gryffindor attempts to speak to the Potions Master one last time.

_Severus_… (_Harry_?) _You can hear me_! (_Yes_…_and_ _you needn't shout_.) _Sorry, sir_. _I was just so surprised it worked_. (_Indeed_.)

Harry frowns at the Potions Master's clipped reply.

_You've been very quiet of late. Are you alright_? (_Besides having to listen to the immature, idle prattle_ _between you and my godson_—_I_'_m splendid_.)

Hearing the older wizard's typical sarcasm, Harry once again senses an upsurge of Severus' annoyance. _Don_'_t worry, professor. Once we_'_ve landed_, _I'll talk to him about your credits_.

Satisfied the Potions Master was okay, the Gryffindor eases back into the fine, leather upholstery behind him.

As Jinn shadows the countryside like a small, speedy cloud, Draco's and Harry's long hair flutters wildly behind them. They enjoy the beautiful fall day in companionable silence while the lick of cold air chills their noses and ears.

Both wizards sit up straighter when they feel the sports car angle downward and begin to descend. Draco quickly grabs the gear lever, preparing to downshift. With sexy confidence, the blond deftly reduces their velocity.

They pass over a wall of trees, their twined branches looking like delicate lacework, having lost their brightly colored leaves the previous month.

Glancing down, Harry sees tall, eroded rocks, standing in stark contrast with a grassy field. A spattering of Muggle tourists and grazing sheep can be seen ambling around a portion of the ancient site.

Once they pass over one curved line of the monoliths, the convertible jumps like it's hit a speed bump. Having crossed the outer property wards, the sprawling estate of Avery Manor, sitting atop a plateaued hill, appears out of thin air.

The stone mansion similar in color to Draco's slate-hued eyes is beset with a multitude of ornate windows. Unlike Malfoy Manor, no wall surrounds the property, providing a clear view of the Neolithic stones.

Nearing the property, Harry's breathing hiccups when he notices the telltale signs of fire damage. A portion of the Roman-tiled roof is caved in and soot stains the outer perimeter of the gaping hole.

Jinn rounds to the back of the property and lands with two small hops. The Slytherin brings the car to a gentle stop and parks it on the edge of an overgrown garden, seemingly unaffected by the cooler season.

"What happened," Harry asks dishearteningly, thinking about the decreased likelihood of finding his grandmother's portrait intact. He exits the vehicle as soon as it comes to a halt, striding towards the damaged section of the building.

Turning off the ignition and pocketing the car key, the blond soon follows, wrapping a supportive arm around the waist of his upset cousin.

"Ailanthus, your cousin and the son of Ash Avery," Draco explains, "fled back here after Voldemort's true death. He turned away fellow Death Eaters, who sought refuge behind the strong blood wards. Since they couldn't get in, they tried to smoke him out, constantly setting fire to one wing. The blaze was extinguished before the entire structure burnt to the ground, but Avery was never seen or heard from again. He was officially labeled as deceased by the Ministry, although…no one has been able to enter and confirm his death.

"However, since the Malfoy wards _allegedly_ named you the Avery Head of House, whether he died here or elsewhere, it doesn't matter—he's likely dead now."

"If I _can't_ enter…will things go back to the way things were? The animosity between us."

Draco slowly pulls away and places his hands in his trouser pockets. "I'm not sure, Harry. I mean…look at it from my point of view."

Sighing, Harry nods in understanding, "If I can't, it'll either mean I'm delusional or…intentionally lied to you." (_If there's a chance Draco might leave_,_ you should inquire about my credits now_.)

The Gryffindor spots a weathered marble bench, surrounded by unruly rose bushes. "Since we've landed, I might as well explain what I need help with. Sit with me?"

Once they've sat down on the stone slab, each shiver from the coldness bleeding past their robes and into their skin.

"I'm not sure where to start," Harry says to himself.

"How about the beginning," Draco suggests, charming their seat warm without a second thought.

As the Gryffindor frets about how best to explain the situation, the blond can no longer stand the building nervous energy.

"Harry, out with it already," the Slytherin urges.

"Magical credits," Harry blurts, hearing Snape's sigh of vexation.

"Magical…credits?"

"Um…well…" The Gryffindor gives a jittery laugh and then grits his teeth. _A little help would be nice_. (_How about explaining _why_ you need them, perhaps_?)

"That's right," Draco relaxes. "I heard how much you donated to Hogwarts—a truly staggering amount—and…you're on work leave because of the detox, correct? I can loan you a few until you return to full duty, no problem."

"Yes, that's true, and thank you for the offer, but I don't want a loan. What I need are the credits you inherited from Severus."

"What?" the Slytherin huffs out in skepticism. "I don't recall anything of the sort in his will… When you visited Gringotts, were you given an addendum?"

"Of a sort…" Harry grabs Draco's hands and gives a squeeze. "Alright, this is going to sound mad, blooming insane, but hear me out." Before continuing, he waits until the blond gives a slow nod and squeezes in return.

After Harry explains as best he can—leaving the more explicit details private—the Slytherin doesn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, Draco raises a hand to cup the other wizard's cheek.

"Don't worry," the blond tenderly reassures, "I'll get you the help you need."

_Harry_, Snape warns, _Draco's going for his wand_.

The Gryffindor immediately seizes his companion's wrists and pushes him down onto the bench. Draco proceeds to thrash about, trying to get free.

"No!" Draco yells, straining against the other wizard. "Please, don't hurt me," the blond implores, panic setting in.

"Stop fighting me." Harry commands, switching into his authoritative Auror voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. Calm. Down." _Help me_! (_It_'_s not my fault you've bungled things up so egregiously_…_but I guess I must_. _Hmm_… _Very few people know that he wet the bed until he was eight_.) _Something else_! (_Fine… He lost his virginity to Marcus Flint)._

"Marcus Flint!" The Gryffindor yells out and then cringes.

Draco pauses for a moment, but when Harry doesn't say anything else, he assumes the other wizard is only speaking gibberish and renews his struggles.

_Marcus Flint_, _the Slytherin Quidditch Captain_, Harry shouts in his mind, not caring how loud he is. (_Mr. Flint was quite taken with Draco. So much so, that he purposely failed his final exams_, _not wanting to graduate and part with him_.)

"Draco!" the Gryffindor tightens his hold and gives a little shake, getting the blond's attention. "The professor just told me that you lost your virginity to _Marcus Flint_!"

"What…" the Slytherin looks stunned for a moment but then snarls. "Doesn't prove anything! Pansy could never keep her mouth shut for anything—or anyone. Get! Off! Me!"

"I will; I promise, but I need you to believe me first… Ask me a question. Ask a question only Professor Snape would know the answer to." (_Finally. You_'_re actually _thinking.)

Draco relaxes his body and mirthlessly laughs, "Fine… Severus and I made an Unbreakable Vow; who was our bonder?"

Peering at Harry, hope niggling in the recess of the Slytherin's heart, he watches as different emotions shuffle across the Gryffindor's face. As he gazes into Harry's shadowed eyes, his intense green orbs reflecting in his own, making them look like verdant fields under stormy clouds, he waits for an answer.

_An Unbreakable Vow_? _With Draco_? (_Yes_… _It took place only a few months before I was killed_.) _Who was it then_? (_Horace Slughorn_.)

Harry's brow creases as he inhales a deep breath. With an exhale, the preoccupied look in his eyes disappears, "He said it was Horace Slughorn." Draco's body jolts as if he's been hit by a hex, and his face looks utterly shocked. (_The vow was made in conjunction with my Last Will and Testament when Draco accepted the responsibility of being the executor of my estate_. _Due to the darker subject matter of some of my private research, I wanted to ensure my estate didn't go through probate and become a matter of public record. Draco and Horace were sworn to secrecy. My goblin solicitor also would know who the bonder was, but he's unable to say a word because of legal privilege_.)

Gradually releasing the blond's wrist, confidant that the Slytherin was starting to believe, Harry goes on to elaborate, "The vow was for his Last Will and Testament…when you promised to be his executor."

Draco swallows a few times before saying in a hushed voice, "I-I don't believe it." An instant later, he shouts his godfather's name, wrapping his arms around Harry in a tight hug, burying his face into the Gryffindor's neck. As the Slytherin fights back tears, Harry chuckles, returning the embrace as he pats the blond's back.

Harry's gaze unfocuses for a moment before he beams, "He's pleased with how you've done in his absence, but…I can feel he's very proud of you." (_Enough with this unwarranted sentimentality_. _The topic at hand needing to be addressed is having my credits returned to me_.)

Rolling his eyes, the Gryffindor smirks, "He wants to come back to the topic of his credits."

After a few rapid blinks, Draco leans back, placing his weight on his forearms, so he can better view of Harry's face. "And with them you'll…bring him back."

"Yes, since I was present at Voldemort's resurrection, we have an idea of where to start. We're wanting to perform it on All Hallows' Evening."

"In two days!"

"Will transferring the credits be an issue?" Harry asks worriedly.

"No, I'll floo my family solicitor as soon as we get back."

Harry's sighs in relief. "Thank you, Draco. By any chance, do you have books on blood magic?"

"No," the Slytherin grumbles, "in adherence with our parole, we had to open our vaults. The Ministry was very thorough with their confiscations."

"Ugh," Harry utters in annoyance, "Well tomorrow, we're going to try and see if we can find anything at Hogwarts."

"I guess we should get a move on then," Draco grins.

"Yeah…" the Gryffindor agrees, shifting his numbing hands placed on either side of the blond's chest.

Both wizards flush with arousal when they realize their compromising position. Harry, feeling an overwhelming hunger, rolls his weight over the Slytherin's groin, causing Draco to gasp and moan. A rush of magic spirals into Harry, and back bowing, the Gryffindor curses in pleasure.

A second later, Draco observes as the Gryffindor's face grimaces in pain.

"Alright!" Harry grits. "You don't need to be so bloody loud; I said alright already!" Apologizing and grudgingly climbing off, he offers a hand to the blond and helps him to his feet.

With growing understanding, the Slytherin smirks at his godfather's inopportune timing. Draco good-humoredly bumps Harry's shoulder with his own, tugging the other man to his side, while nonchalantly placing a hand on the Gryffindor's arse.

As he guides Harry away, the blond grins, "I'm so looking forward to seeing how things play out." Giving a good squeeze to the firm buttock in his palm and hearing the rewarding hitch of breath, the Slytherin rhetorically asks, "I mean who doesn't love a good challenge?"

Following a cobblestone path which leads to the main entryway, the young men converse about the latest Quidditch news, bantering back and forth about which teams would be making it to the finals.

Once they've reached the front of the building, Harry takes in the below picturesque view of Avebury before turning his attention towards the imposing doorway of Avery Manor.

Unlike the rest of the structure, the glossy, black double doors are barren of any decoration, not even a doorknob or a handle can be seen.

When the doors remain unmoving, Harry draws his wand and without hesitation mutters, "_Diffindo_." Blood welling on his thumb, he smears it onto the entranceway. The thick, red liquid begins to slither across its surface like a starburst, and with a hiss, the doors swing open.

"Well, I'll be damned," the Slytherin grins, clapping Harry on the back. "Welcome to the family, cousin." Gently taking Harry's hand, the blond heals the small cut.

Eyes prickling, Harry says with a lopsided smile, "Thanks."

Filled with purpose, the Gryffindor enters the dim, dusty, and dilapidated building. "Where do you think we should start?" (_The top floor_.) "Severus suggests we start at the top and make our way down."

Nodding in agreement, Draco recommends, "It wouldn't hurt to begin our search in the areas furthest away from the damaged sections either."

Already heading towards the grand staircase, steps echoing off the walls, Harry says in excitement, "Sounds like a plan."

As the Gryffindor climbs, he quickly notices something which causes his heart plummet. "The portraits."

"What?" Draco pulls his eyes from Harry's arse and pays closer attention to their surroundings. "Oh…shit."

"Yeah," his cousin completely agrees, "They're _all_ bloody empty."

"When the building caught fire, they must have fled and because of Avery's death decided not to return."

Harry runs a hand through his hair, "Well…fuck. I guess this was a major waste of time."

"Do you still want to take a look around?"

The Gryffindor shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "Might as well."

During their explorations, each wizard finds many objects of interest. In an opulent office, Draco discovers a bejeweled, pocket-sized Agendater, which works like a mobile secretary. Besides informing its owner of upcoming events and important tasks, it can also compose formal letters and brew tea. While in the library, Harry can't find any books about blood magic, but he does find and shrink many focusing on the mind arts, which at one point, were likely read by his grandmother. Even the Potions Master gets into the act, demanding Harry take varying containers of ingredients found in a stuffy storage closet.

Already covered in grime, Harry and Draco decide to take a closer look at the fire damage before leaving.

Once they've neared the fire ravaged rooms on the ground floor, the Gryffindor ask in a silly, spooky voice, "What if we unearth the charred remnants of my cousin?"

Draco laughs, "Hmm… I'm not sure a full funeral service is warranted, Harry. Maybe we should just bury him out back."

"Have you visited the garden?"

"What?" both wizards ask each other in confusion, and then turning around, gawk when in a portrait, they see a young woman sitting demurely on a high-backed chair.

"Grandmother?" Harry gasps in complete wonder, staring into eyes so like his and his mother's.

"You did take your sweet time getting here…Harry is it," the portrait of Azalea Avery chuckles. "I wish I could have met you so very much sooner, but as you can see," she gestures towards her feet, "I've been unable to leave."

Harry glances down and notices the bottom left side of the canvas is damaged, his grandmother's blood-red robes resembling globs of melted wax.

"Don't worry, Harry," Draco assures his cousin, "Her portrait _can_ be repaired."

"And whom may you be, young man?" Azalea inquires with a raised brow.

After a polite bow, the blond introduces himself with a charming smile. "It's a true pleasure to meet you Ms. Avery. I'm Draco, the son and heir of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy."

"Oh! You must be little Cissy's boy," Harry's grandmother cries in delight. "How wonderful!"

Both wizards can't help but smile at her enthusiasm.

"I wish we could chat longer, gentlemen, but it will be dark soon…" She repeats her earlier question, "Have you visited the garden? I put blood, sweat, and tears into its tending. I do miss the feel of dirt between my fingers."

"I'm…guessing she wants us to investigate the garden," Draco comments. "And she's right, it _is_ getting late; we've been here for hours. I'm sure by now, mother's begun to worry."

Azalea shoos with her hands. "Off with you! You shouldn't cause her to worry, but be sure to visit again soon."

Harry smiles, "We will." He places a hand over the painted one of his grandmother. "Promise."

After saying their farewells, Draco and Harry exit the manor. As the doors glide shut behind them, the wizard's shoes sound loud against the stairs and pathway. A fragrant, northerly wind swirls around them, and both men inhale deeply.

Harry closes his eyes and takes in another lung full. "I swear…I smell something faintly…familiar."

Draco chuckles, "You should; it smells like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes, you probably don't even notice it anymore." the blond leans into Harry's neck, nuzzling his face against the other man's sensitive skin, playfully sniffing. "Your cologne."

"Oh! You're right!" Laughing, the Gryffindor tries squashing his cousin's face by bending his neck. "Stop! Your nose's cold."

"I could never quite place the smell." Harry frowns. "Whatever it is, you must use it regularly?"

"I do. By itself it's poisonous, but when brewed properly can heal abdominal discomfort and bouts of nausea."

Bobbing his head in understanding, Harry mutters, "That's why… I rarely need to work with ingredients from that branch. It smells nice enough. What is it?"

"Lily of the Valley."

"Lily of the…" The Gryffindor takes off, following his nose. Shouting behind him, he informs his cousin, "My mother's given name was _Lilia_, _Vale_."

After cutting a path through dense shrubbery, Harry discovers a smaller, less formal garden, bursting with various flowering plants known for their harmful effects. He recognizes bright, orange-and-gold blood flowers, stately irises in a dizzying array of colors, and near the border, he identifies the white, tiny, bell-shaped blossoms he had been hunting for, Lily of the Valley.

Calling out to his cousin, Harry shouts, "Found them!"

Feeling irritable, Draco removes a sprig of something from his hair. "So you have… Do you have _any _idea what she wanted you to see?"

"None…" (_Does nothing look out of place_?) "Out of place…" Glancing down, Harry notices a big, black rock. All the other decorative stones were in shades of grey and cream.

The Gryffindor bends down and starts digging on his hands and knees.

After Harry had dug out the black rock and found nothing, Draco suggests, "Perhaps, she's gone mad…or enjoys playing tricks on others."

"I didn't get that vibe from her," the disappointed Gryffindor says, standing up and rubbing his hands together in an attempt to remove bits of moist dirt. The culmination of a day, filled with moments of extreme hope and hopelessness, finally overcomes the wizard, and he starts to choke up. "There _must_ be a reason why she couldn't just right out say what she wanted."

Removing his handkerchief and dabbing his eyes and brow, Harry catches sight of the red stains on the cotton fabric made from Diafol's earlier attack, "Didn't she mention…something about blood, sweat, and tears?"

Dropping to his knees once more, Harry rubs the cloth on the stone. With a loud pop, it slowly morphs into a baby bottle, and inside it, the swirling silver strands of a memories and a gold vault key can be seen.

"You're grandmother wasn't mad," Draco says in a soft voice, his eyes large and shining with admiration. "She was bloody brilliant."

With a wide, aching smile, Harry makes quick work of the mess below and on them. Before finding their way out of the garden, he also casts a shatter-proof charm on the little, glass bottle.

The setting sun with its rays of pink and orange gives a warm glow to their skin. Once they're both buckled in, Harry notices the near blinding brilliance. Opening the glove box, the Gryffindor finds a piece of parchment. Tearing it in half, he transfigures two pairs of aviator sunglasses.

After Harry puts on a pair, he slides the other onto his cousin's face. Both wizards smile and see their happy reflection mirrored in the other's lenses.

"Merlin, I'm starving," Draco grouses as he starts the engine and then chuckles with amusement. "Ready for your first Malfoy family dinner?"

Head whipping around to face his cousin, Harry's eyes widen. "Dinner?"


	15. Winner Takes All

**Winner Takes All**

The warm chartreuse glow from lanterns illuminates Draco's and Harry's face as they merrily banter their way up to the main entrance of Malfoy Manor. As soon as they reach the porch, one of the double doors opens, and they spot Brownie waiting for them with a scowl on her face.

"You is really on the Mistress's wick this time, Master Draco," she warns, gesturing a weedy arm for them to hurry inside, shutting the door harder than necessary.

Draco sighs, his cheerful, carefree mood diminishing while thoughts of flitting away to a flat in London cross his mind. "I'm well up on how mother feels about me being punctual for dinner, but she needs to remember I'm now a grown man with responsibilities. As such, I need to see to an important item of business before I can join everyone. Harry, however—" Draco smiles mischievously "—can hold down the fort while I'm away."

Hating the idea of having to talk with Lucius and Narcissa without Draco present, Harry starts to object, "I don't—"

Chuckling, Draco cuts him off. "Not to worry, Harry. If topics of conversation get dull, I'm sure a certain someone's repartee will keep things _interesting_…"

Severus snorts in amusement, whereas Harry feels heat spread across his cheeks while he gives Draco a black look.

"You _do_ want the credits as soon as possible, correct?" Draco lifts a brow.

Huffing out a breath, Harry nods his head firmly, acquiescing.

From a pocket, Draco hands Brownie the small leather bag he used to store all of his collected findings from Avery Manor.

"Brownie, see to these and forward them appropriately as needed. The Agendater needs a good polishing and tune-up with a skilled artificer before I'd trust it to serve me water, let alone hot tea."

"Yes, Master Draco."

"Good. And let mother know that I _must_ speak with her before dinner is served. Where will it be held this evening?"

"Brownie will relay your message and ask the Mistress." She pops away, returning a few seconds later with a muffled crack.

"Mistress wants dinner to be a family affair. It is to be shared 'dans la salle à manger privée de la famille,'" Brownie says in her high, squeaky voice, pronouncing the French phrase with no discernable accent.

"Really?" Draco drawls out, an expression of surprise on his face.

Harry relaxes recognizing the French word for family. The only close relatives the Malfoys have left are Teddy and Andromeda, and visiting with them wasn't anything to worry over.

"Well then, I think we've swanned about enough for today." Draco spins on one foot to face the opposite corridor then, looking over his shoulder, adds, "I'll be in my office sorting out Severus's credits. Brownie will show you the way." With a fetching smile, he leaves, his long, pale hair and dark grey robes swaying behind him.

While fancying Draco's strong, confident stride, Harry notes the return of Severus's silent passiveness. _Severus, are you sure you're feeling alright_?

_As fit as a blessed fiddle…the second one_, Severus growls into a mutter, Harry incorrectly hearing the ending phrase, "second to none."

_Right then, I wanted to be sure… It's just I've become accustomed to hearing your voice in my head, and I start to worry when you don't speak for a while. If you have need of anything, don't hesitate to let me know_._ I'll do what I can to help_ _you_.

Able to sense Harry's genuine care, Severus becomes flustered. The intensity of Harry's affection is like standing in the rays of a spotlight: blinding, confounding. Even though he prefers the dark, he can't help but bask in the attention. Harry's light makes everything that doesn't matter recede into the shadows, revealing what Severus truly wants. He playfully admonishes, _Harry, you should know better than to make such promises… What if all I want is _you?

Harry smiles at the return of Severus's brighter mood, amazed at how much he had grown to miss it in such a short amount of time. Not even Draco's company had been enough to fill the void completely. _Then you only need ask_. He impishly grins. _I'm always open to negotiations_… _Is a ménage à trois still on the table_?

Wanting to repeatedly bash his head against a flat surface, Severus sighs. _I never thought I'd say this, but at times you are too much of a pernicious Slytherin for words_.

Misconstruing Severus's exasperation, Harry sniggers as he watches Draco reach the end of the long corridor and turn a corner out of view. _I understand… Draco's like a son to you. It's the same way for me with Ron_; _I think of him as a brother_. _The thought of shagging him turns my stomach. _Grinning, Harry drawls, _However, I've always been fascinated by Draco— _He chuckles _—even when we were younger and he was being a right spoiled brat_.

_I'm just glad that Draco being a closer cousin than previously known doesn't really change things_. _I remember when Neville brought Hannah Abbott, who's also his first cousin, as his date for Sunday dinner,_ _not one Weasley had batted an eyelid._ _However, later on after a few bevvies, Hermione had guilelessly brought up the topics of endogamy, consanguinity_, _and genetics_.

Severus snorts_. Although Miss Granger is exceedingly clever, she never was the most tactful_.

Harry laughs and nods his head in agreement. _She always means well_. _At one point during the discussion_, _she suggested that, because the world's wizarding population is so small_, _the true purpose of the Triwizard Tournament might have been to provide opportunities for families to bring in fresh blood._ _She went on to jokingly say it might have also been a convoluted way of finding the most eligible witch or wizard… _

Snape smirks as Harry continues to idly chatter away, likely an unconscious effort to delay the inevitable. Gathering what meager magic he has, he manages to lightly stroke Harry's cheek. Instantly Harry sends him a spark of power, causing both wizards to emit a soft moan. _Harry_…_you shouldn't keep your hosts waiting much longer_.

Harry moans again, this time accepting defeat. _I know_… _Damn this detox, Severus_. _It has_ _overtaken my libido_. _At times_ _I feel beyond randy_. _If I don't keep my mind occupied or my hands busy_, _all I want to do is fuck_… _My cock has hardened and softened so many times today that I'm surprised I don't have a lump of tempered steel in my trousers. I feel like a coiled snake that, if not feed soon, will strike the first hot-blooded creature it sees. I'm really worried about ruining my newfound friendship with Draco_ _by complicating things_.

_It_'s_ probably wise not to rush things with anyone so soon after your divorce_, Severus slyly advises. _And Draco already said he's only interested in liaisons of convenience until he wants to marry._

_I know you're right. _Harry huffs out a heavy sigh. _But I still want him_.

Bitterness overwhelms Severus. _Then do as you wish_, he sneers. _Let_'_s be off_.

Disappointed in the sour turn of Severus's mood, Harry breathes out a long sigh and glances down.

Brownie, who sensed Harry had not merely been staring off into space, inquires, "Are you ready to depart, Master Harry."

Harry smiles and gives a nod.

Bidding him to follow close behind, Brownie starts towards an expansive flight of marble stairs that leads up to the first floor.

At the outset, the corridors they travel through are high, wide, and elaborate. But with every subsequent turn, the ceilings become lower and the walls more narrow and plain. However, the one thing they all have in common is that Harry has already visited them by way of his dreams through Nagini or Tom.

Deep within the maze of the manor, Brownie abruptly stops in front of a door Harry has never noticed before. She turns its silver knob and, unlike all the other doorknobs he's seen in the manor, it's emblazoned with the Malfoy coat of arms: a prominent _M_ on a large shield, which is above the motto, _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_. Purity Will Always Conquer. Once Brownie ushers him inside, she securely closes the door behind her.

Passing a silk chaise longue placed against a wall covered in hand-painted wallpaper, Harry realizes he has entered a well-appointed lavatory.

"Master Harry may use the toilet, if needed, and then Brownie will help with freshening up."

After he relieves himself and washes his hands, Harry smiles in gratitude when Brownie offers him a fresh, warm hand towel. He duly uses the soft piece of cloth before it vanishes with a swishing sound.

Brownie proceeds to simultaneously rid him of his five o'clock shadow, press his robes, shine his shoes, and brush his hair. Inspecting him with her overly large violet eyes, she adjusts the position of his wand scabbard and bobs her head in approval.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees a large framed mirror swing open and looks questioningly at Brownie. Ears flapping happily, she gives him a reassuring grin and motions for him to enter. "Bon Appétit, Master Harry."

Harry hesitates for a moment before taking a step. As soon as his foot crosses the threshold, intense pressure from powerful wards surrounds him, causing him to gasp. The magical barrier licks at his magical signature, testing him, delving deeper and deeper along the pathways of his magic with little resistance due to his damaged protections. Once it reaches Harry's core, Severus chokes back a cry of pain.

Clenching his hand, Harry places it over his heart where the soul-deep wrenching sensation is worst. He pushes forward against the invisible wall while desperately grabbing at the tendrils of Severus's spirit, trying to keep their fledgling connection from being torn apart. Fear fills Harry as he struggles, anger and then determination soon following behind. "No. He's _mine_," Harry grits out in a hiss, wrapping his soul protectively around Severus's.

Immediately after Harry declares his claim, the wards pause and then slowly disentangle from his magical core. He nearly falls to the floor when the magical obstruction allows him admittance into the arched-ceiling passageway.

Panting, Harry asks, "Severus?"

_I'm fine_, Snape retorts uncertainly, still coming to terms with Harry's earlier proclamation, unsure of what to make of it.

Relief hitting Harry hard, his eyes close. Reopening them a moment later, he smiles. "Serves you right for playing stowaway. The wards were only expecting a party of one; it seems."

Expelling a long exhale, Harry rights his robes and strides further into the corridor, studying his surroundings. What he finds causes his lips to part with wonder. Instead of priceless tapestries, paintings, or murals on the walls, he sees framed photos of the Malfoy family. Not the stiff cod happiness of staged portraits, but snapshots of real life.

In one, a young Draco giggles in glee as an older wizard—who from his appearance is likely Draco's grandfather, Abraxas—pretends to flee in terror from the same miniature dragon toy Harry saw Teddy playing with earlier. In another, Narcissa holds an infant in her arms, softly singing as she rocks in a rocking chair, smiling when she catches sight of the person taking her picture. Continuing to meander down the passageway, one photo has Harry especially grinning from ear to ear in appreciation, and he laughs out loud when he feels Severus's lusty fondness as well. They both watch the endless loop of Lucius in tight trousers, showing a rapt Draco how to mount a broom properly.

Harry hears the echoing sound of a throat being cleared and searches for its origin. A few steps away at the other end of the corridor, Lucius Malfoy stands, his usual stonelike, pale face turning a soft pink.

"Mr. Potter, are you quite through nosing about? Dinner is waiting to be served."

Harry reluctantly steps away from the enthralling photograph of Lucius's leather-clad rump and continues down the passage. "Sorry, it's just so fascinating seeing _Malfoys_ acting so…_normally_."

"My, my, Mr. Potter, was that an actual apology? Have you finally learnt some manners?"—At Lucius's goading tone, Harry stops glancing at the moving pictures and locks eyes with the other wizard—"And for your information, there is no _acting_ _here_. You are currently in our private living quarters: the one place Malfoys have been able to drop pretenses and be themselves. In this section of the manor, only close blood relatives of the Master's and Mistress's choosing are allowed admittance."

Harry reaches where Lucius stands, almost able to look the other man directly in the eyes. "So…my being here corroborates everything I said about my lineage?"

Lucius gazes at Harry and then lowly chortles like he's just heard the most rib-tickling punch line. From his robes, he pulls out a small object and shows it to Harry. It's one of the tokens Draco had found at Avery Manor, clearly displaying the Avery coat of arms. Not even trying to hide his wonder, Lucius whispers, "Harry Potter, a pureblood wizard who, from what I've heard, now dabbles in the Dark Arts."

Severus stirs in alarm at the covetousness in Lucius's voice and Harry's increasing sexual need.

Grinning like the cat that stole the cream, Harry softly says, "I've always been curious as to how your lips might feel—" Harry takes a long shaky breath and moves back a step "—but you're married." Nails digging into his palms, Harry shakes his head. "You're married to my aunt. Yet…I can't imagine myself ever addressing you as Uncle _Anything_. I've wanted you for too many years. Ever since I saw you sacrifice your dignity to save Draco, I went from loathing you to desiring you… I can't just shut off how I feel." The fantasy he had the previous morning after he brushed his teeth of him noshing on Lucius's cock and his recent dream with a bollock-naked Lucius chooses this moment to intrude upon his thoughts, not helping matters at all.

Lucius gapes at Harry's blunt admission.

Wistfulness and delight gleaming in his eyes, Harry smiles, closing Lucius's slack jaw with his forefinger. "Would you calling me Harry and me calling you Lucius be appropriate enough?"

Blue eyes looking more like hot flames rather than glacial ice, Lucius gives a perfunctory nod yes. "May I escort you inside…Harry."

Shivering in pleasure from hearing his name said with such tentative hunger, Harry silently reminds himself, _He's my aunt's husband_. But still unable help himself, he responds by huskily saying, "Yes, please…Lucius," causing the older wizard's pupils to expand.

When Lucius places his hand in the curve of Harry's lower back, Harry has to control the urge to syphon magic. As he's guided out of the passageway, the feel of Lucius's fingertips lightly touching the edge of his arse forces him to hold back a moan.

The space they enter is unexpectedly modest in both size and decor, very much like a French country cottage. The walls and coffered ceiling, plastered in a soft cream, and the silver candlesticks, topped with white candles, create a cozy relaxed atmosphere. On the left side of the room, Narcissa lounges with an open book on a classy, yet comfortable, settee. A fireplace cracks and pops with a pleasant heat, warming her feet. Pale azure, almost white, shelving displays family mementos and holds thick leather-bound photo albums.

And, on the other side of the room…awaits an unoccupied dining table that sits four, Andromeda and Teddy nowhere to be seen. _Oh fuck_, Harry thinks with dread while Snape darkly chuckles at his predicament.

Narcissa notices Lucius and Harry presence and quickly sits up, placing her book on a nearby Pembroke table. Rising elegantly to her feet, she beams and sweeps towards them. "Welcome, Harry."

"Hello, Aunt Cissa." Harry falteringly returns her smile; apprehension, affection and guilt over his less than honorable feelings towards her husband warring within his mind.

Clutching Harry's right hand with both of hers, Narcissa gently squeezes. "I'm sure you're famished." She gestures towards the table. "Please choose any seat; it doesn't matter which."

Harry, recalling Severus's grand escape from Hogwarts Great Hall and perhaps wanting to make one himself, strides towards the seat nearest to a bay window, which could only be there because of magic. He waits to sit down while Lucius assists Narcissa into the chair facing him. As the Malfoy Head of House, Lucius takes the seat to his left, bestowing him the place of honor.

Unfortunately for Harry, neither an ostentatious floral arrangement nor objects flaunting their wealth adorn the small but well-polished table, permitting Narcissa and Lucius—especially Lucius—an unobstructed view to eye their guest.

Looking down at his informal three-course table setting, allowing his long hair to hide his flushed cheeks, Harry pretends to study the white cloth napkin folded into the shape of a peacock.

"Harry," Narcissa smoothly says, ending the uncomfortable silence and forcing Harry to glance up. "I heard the wonderful news that you were able to enter Avery Manor. While we wait for Draco, why don't you tell us more about it?"

Brightly smiling in appreciation, Harry does so, beginning with Draco's impromptu flying lesson. Many minutes pass by with them genially conversing until, during a pause, Narcissa interjects, "Whatever could be taking Draco so long?" Glancing behind her to confirm Draco hadn't entered, she calls aloud, "Brownie."

Before Narcissa starts to inhale her next breath, the house-elf appears. "Yes, Mistress."

"Where is Draco? Is he on his way?"

Yanking at her ears, Brownie shakes her head. "No, Mistress. Brownie is still waiting for Master Draco to leave his office."

Breathing deeply, Narcissa purses her lips. "Very well. I'll not have our guest wait any longer. Begin the dinner service."

"Master Draco said—"

"If it were so important, he should have seen me first. I'll not postpone dinner a second longer."

"Yes, Mistress." With a forlorn expression, Brownie Disapparates with a soft snap.

Narcissa unfolds and then lays her napkin across her lap, Harry and Lucius following suit. A second later, a basket piled with freshly baked bread materializes in the middle of the table, as well as bowls of soup on their dinner plates and a semi-opaque Amontillado in their wine glasses.

Harry awkwardly ignores the amber liquid as Lucius and Narcissa take their glasses, instead reaching for his water glass. After a cool sip, he inhales the rich and sweet nutty scent of his soup, humming with delight.

As Narcissa selects a piece of crusty bread, she explains, "With only three courses, this evening's dinner will be a simple affair, but each dish is a personal favorite, starting with mine. What you have before you is chestnut soup with a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream. This soup is one of my earliest memories. The first time I ate this dish was in Barcelona while on a holiday with my father and sisters. I don't know why, but mother had remained in London." A faraway expression brimming with longing appears on her face. "It was a very happy time… Whenever I have this soup, it reminds me of my father's booming laughter." Picking up her spoon, she encouragingly smiles. "Please enjoy."

Very moved, Harry thickly says, "I'm beyond honored that you would share something so close to your heart. Thank you, Aunt Cissa." Under her expectant eye, he sips a spoonful and closes his eyes in bliss, savoring the creamy depth of flavor. The warm soup eases any remaining nervousness Harry has and, with a relaxed open smile, he proclaims, "It's delicious."

Her eyes crinkling with joy, Narcissa tucks into her own bowl. In between swallows, she shares more Black family stories: how all the sisters during summer holidays would leave early in the morning and fly on brooms to Barafundle Beach to watch the sunrise, how Sirius accidentally performed underage magic when he was six, which caused Bellatrix to go bald and have to wear an itchy wig for an entire week, and how her father secretly—yet not so secretly—trailed after her and Lucius during their first date in Hogsmeade.

All the while as Narcissa speaks, Harry's glances at Lucius's mouth grow longer as the older wizard slides his spoon in and out from between his lips. Severus interrupts Harry's most recent dark, lusty fantasy by giving him a mental slap. _Narcissa asked you a question._

Ripping his eyes away from Lucius, Harry mumbles, "Hmmm… What was that Aunt Cissa?"

"I said, 'Are you ready for the second course?'"

Harry looks down to find his soup bowl empty. Quickly turning red, he sets down his spoon. "Yes…that would be brilliant."

Misreading Harry's wandering mind, Narcissa responds, "I, too, have been preoccupied with what Draco has been up to." Lucius's full lips curl with amusement when Harry nods in agreement.

"I believe I will go check on him myself." Narcissa stands, setting her napkin down on the cushion of her seat. Both Lucius and Harry rise as well out of courtesy. "No, no, please return to your seats." She waits until they comply to speak again. "The next course is Lucius's favorite, and it would be best for him to stay and tell you more about it, Harry."

Eyes darting to Lucius and back to Narcissa, Harry scrambles to recommend, "C-Couldn't Brownie go check instead?"

"No, Draco's office and adjoining laboratory are under the aegis of Gringotts, which prevents even house-elves from entering. However, as the mistress of this manor, _I_ can." Smiling superiorly, Narcissa narrows her eyes with purpose. "I'll return shortly."

When the door clicks shut behind Narcissa, Harry doesn't know whether he should moan in despair or crow for joy.

"Harry?" Lucius's honeyed voice wraps around the younger wizard's body like constricting straps of silk.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry refocuses on Lucius's regal face.

"Do you eat lamb?"

Harry frowns in confusion. "What?"

Picking up his dinner fork and knife, Lucius motions at his plate. "Lamb."

Glimpsing down at his own plate, Harry realizes the main course had been served.

"Oh! Yes… Mum, I mean Mrs. Weasley, made it regularly but usually in a stew or cottage pie…never like this." Looking down, Harry admires the dragon-sized lamb chop resting on a bed of braised red cabbage; golden-brown, roasted potato slices, formed into small rose blossoms, positioned around it artfully. "This is your favorite dish?"

"Yes." Lucius motions for Harry to start. He then cuts off a slice of meat, places it in his mouth, and slowly chews, momentarily closing his eyes in pleasure. "However, in my youth, it was cooked on a spit over an open fire. Malfoys for generations have spent most of their leisure time outdoors: hunting, playing Quidditch, riding winged horses. My father used to say that my mother's heart lived in the gardens and not inside our home" —He stiffly smiles, covering up past pain— "She and my older brother Gaius died when I was eight years old."

Complete surprise floods Harry at hearing Lucius had a brother, and he lowers what would have been his first forkful. Sorrow surges into Harry's heart, imagining what it would be like to lose Ron. "I'm sorry."

Lips tightening after another bite, Lucius gives a nod of thanks before swallowing. "My brother wanted to go on a one-month grand world tour before he began Hogwarts. I decided to stay behind with father so I could continue to learn how to ride my birthday gift, a gray and black-spotted male granian that I had named Merlin. It was a fitting moniker since he shared the same feathering as a small species of falcon found in this region known by the same name, _and_ because he was quite the spirited steed. Although he could have out flown a Peruvian Vipertooth, he was extremely stubborn and tended to make his handlers exclaim the oath more often than not.

"The last meal my family had shared was after a long leisurely ride over the countryside. As our horses grazed freely, I remember how the lamb smelt, roasting over a fire of apple wood logs, the earthy freshness of the nearby vegetable garden. How the summer breeze felt as my brother and I play dueled and my parents conspiratorially whispered into each other's ear… Later that evening, my mother and Gaius left and, a few days later, they were killed in a Muggle war between India and China. Muggles call it the Sino-Indian War."

"Is that why—"

"Why I despise Muggles?" Lucius lifts an eyebrow.

Harry nods and finally takes his first bite, which included a bit of everything off his plate. As he chews, his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he gives an appreciative moan.

Grinning at Harry's response, Lucius shakes his head. "No. But it solidified my hatred. Now, however, I feel it less so. Make no mistake, I still consider Muggles inferior; however, having participated in a war myself, I've learned innocents always get caught in the crossfire…"

With every bite and swallow of his food, Harry leans in closer to Lucius, letting the older wizard do most of the talking. The rousing cadence of Lucius's voice enthralls him, and he soon finds himself rubbing his foot against Lucius's leg, his touch causing Lucius to pause mid-sentence.

"Harry?" Lucius asks uncertainly.

The last shred of Harry's control breaks. He hears Severus's voice, but it sounds far away. And it doesn't matter; what Harry needs is sitting right next to him. Harry yanks Lucius towards him by the shirt and kisses the other wizard hard.

Lucius utensils clatter onto the table. His eyes widen with shock and become even wider when Harry leaps from his seat, pushes Lucius's chair back to straddle his lap. Fingers flared out, hands shaking with indecision at his sides, Lucius moans as Harry gyrates against his growing erection. A trickle of magic as potent as the Dark Lord's nudges his own, and Lucius, shivering with desire, drops his defenses, burying his hands into Harry's long hair. Harry and Severus gasp from the sudden influx of Lucius's magic tinged with the addictive taste of darkness.

And that's the scene Draco finds as he steps into the dining room. "_Not_ the family affair I was expecting," he utters to himself, an expression of disgusted fascination on his face. Having watched enough, Draco shouts, "Father!"

Hearing and then seeing his son, Lucius hastily attempts to remove Harry from his lap.

To lure Lucius back, Harry begins returning magic, now imbued with his own heady magical signature. Lucius shudders in ecstasy, growing nearer to physical completion.

"Lucius! Harry!" Narcissa's exclamation from behind Draco hits the two embracing wizards like the surface of the English Channel during the coldest day in January.

Harry staggers off, unsteadily plopping back into his own seat, almost tumbling over the side. "I-I'm sorry… I-I don't…" He covers his face with trembling hands, muttering a shedload of apologies while Lucius stares at him dumbfounded.

"Mother…I see you began dinner without me. There was a very important reason why I needed to speak with you."

"Was it that I should worry about my husband taking up with my nephew?"

Draco snorts at his mother's wry tone. "Do you remember Madam Mortcombe's little problem and how it was remedied?"

"Madam Mortcombe..." Narcissa takes in a slow, deep breath in understanding.

"How much do you think?" Draco asks, cocking his head to the side, sauntering towards the dining table.

Following after her son, Narcissa answers, "The soup had a smidgen of dry Sherry added, but the real worry is the cabbage, which included a good helping of Pinot Noir in its preparation."

Draco reaches Harry's side and, crouching down, lightly places a palm on the distressed wizard's knee. "Harry," he gently prods.

Harry lowers his hands from his flushed face. "Draco?"

"It's alright, Harry; no one's upset with you. There were traces of alcohol in your food, which reacted with the detox potion in your system, greatly decreasing your inhibitions." Taking hold of Harry's hand, Draco rises and encourages Harry to stand. "I'll show you to one of the guest bedrooms where you can rest and let the remaining effects wear off."

With come-hither eyes, Harry coquettishly grins. "Bedroom?"

Draco snorts and playfully says, "Come along, you randy-arsed oik."

Harry leans forward and nuzzles Draco's neck. "Want you…"

Feeling his cock starting to stir, Draco bites his bottom lip to save himself from the embarrassment of moaning in front of his parents.

"Draco, do you need—"

"Lucius," Narcissa's razor-sharp voice interrupts, "I'm sure Draco can handle things on his own."

"Of course." Lucius looks away, all expression absent from his face.

Draco securely wraps an arm around Harry's waist. He braces Harry against his body and leads the amorous wizard, who cunningly gropes at his arse underneath his robes, out of the room and into a wood-paneled corridor.

When Harry's hand breaches the waistband of his trousers and touches the warm skin of his bum, Draco almost trips. "Harry…" Draco pleads, stopping in the middle of the long passage.

Harry dissolves into closed-mouth, snorting laughter and manages to says, "No pants."

"Find that funny do you?" Draco asks, successfully urging Harry forward.

"Me too."

"You too, what?"

"No pants."

Draco grits his teeth and groans. "You're testing my limits, Harry. I'm sure Severus has been yelling up a storm about protecting your virtue."

"No," Harry morosely answers. "Quiet again… Miss him."

Humming in thought, Draco wonders if Severus's silence means he's admitted defeat. "Here we are." Halting, he turns a knob and pushes open a door with the sole of his right foot.

Harry ignores the opulent bedroom and instead focuses on Draco's face. "You're beautiful. You've always been so beautiful."

His face coloring, Draco clears his throat. "Thank…you." Guiding Harry further into the room, passing a sitting area, he heads towards the mammoth four-poster bed located on the left-hand side of the chamber. "The loo's through those doors by the window over there." Draco indicates where, pointing with his free hand.

Even though Harry is slightly shorter than Draco, Harry's body outweighs the other wizard's in pure muscle. And so, once they reach the bed, Harry easily manhandles Draco over, causing him to land on his back with a puff of air. One of Harry's knees settles high between Draco's legs, and Draco's arms are pinned against the feather-stuffed duvet on either side of his body.

At this point, Draco's in a bit of a dilemma. Harry _is_ pissed as a newt, but…_technically_, he's also the one acting as the instigator…

Draco groans because of his irritating conscious. "Harry…I wouldn't mind this," he begins, "but right now, you're not all here and—"

Captivated by Draco's mouth, Harry licks his lips a second before crushing them against Draco.

His body going lax, Draco moans into the kiss. Harry's tongue slips through Draco's lips, stroking the smooth grooves inside. As magic begins to spill from Draco and into Harry, strengthening him and Severus, Harry urgently tugs at Draco's zip, years of curiosity, years of lust, culminating in this moment.

Draco's back bows when he feels Harry's hot hand encircling his length. "Oh, Merlin…" he whimpers, Harry's unrestrained magic caressing him, cajoling him, raising the hair on his body. With the first stroke of Harry's hand, power slams into Harry and Severus, causing both to curse loudly.

Gazing at Draco beneath him, Harry increases the speed he pumps Draco's cock, reveling in the slick, wet sounds of his foreskin sliding over his glans. Draco writhes from side to side, toes twitching as he reaches the cusp of orgasm.

"Ah, fuck, Harry! I'm going to…I'm going to…" Harry's hold loosens, and he moves off to the side—but it's too late. Ropes of come shoot into the air, landing in glossy lines across Draco's dark trousers. He clenches the material of the duvet in both hands, screaming out his pleasure.

With his last spurt, Draco lets his body sink into the bed. He takes a moment to enjoy his post-orgasmic stupor before he apologizes to silence. "Harry?" Draco turns to see him passed out, peacefully slumbering away. For a moment he can only stare with incredulity, before he cracks a smile and laughs out loud. "Figures."

After cleaning himself off and zipping his flies, Draco cuddles close to Harry and sighs with both contentment and tiredness, the fatigue from his large transference of magic to Harry hitting him. Looking fondly at Harry's unconscious form, he snorts. "You're still a top-drawer git," he mumbles before falling asleep, breathing in the spicy floral scent of Harry's cologne.

* * *

Harry pops up into a sitting position, grimacing from the painful press of his arousal against his trousers. Scanning his surroundings, he determines he's still on the bed in the guest room that Draco— _Draco_. Moaning with mortification at what had happened, Harry flops back down, covering his face with an arm when he also recalls how he had mauled Lucius. Everything that had occurred after his first sip of alcohol-laced soup is woolly, sharp edges softened, sounds muffled, but not one moment has been forgotten.

After inhaling a deep breath and letting it whoosh out, Harry sits back up searching for Draco. In the sitting area, he finds Severus seated, coldly watching him.

"Have you officially decided to change your vocation from Auror to bumboy?" Severus mockingly asks.

Standing up, Harry stalks over, anger rising. "What's gotten on your tits, Snape? You've been a moody arse all day."

Severus refuses to answer, only arching a thick brow, increasing Harry's frustration.

Harry grinds his teeth and growls. "I can't help what I did. I wasn't thinking str—"

"Yes, I know _precisely_ what you were _thinking_," Severus snaps, eyes narrowing.

A wash of emotion from Snape swamps Harry and, finally, he recognizes what exactly Severus has been feeling. "Wait… You're…_jealous_—"

Nostrils flaring, Severus jolts to his feet, chest to chest with Harry, and hisses, "Don't be ridiculous."

"No, you _are_. I can _feel_ it," Harry states with amazement. "Before I thought it was only annoyance, but now I can tell the subtle difference… You've been jealous."

Severus's black eyes bore into Harry's and, instead of responding with words, his right hand reaches out to clutch Harry's hard-on, gently rubbing it through his trousers.

Head lolling back, a rightness, which had been missing with both Lucius and Draco, courses through Harry. His soul sighs; his legs shake, and he's saved from banging his knees onto the floor by Snape catching him. As Severus holds Harry up with his left arm, he deftly slides down Harry's zip, freeing his erection.

For the first time, the strong grip of another man's hand caresses his cock, skin directly on skin. As a throaty moan reverberates in his chest, Harry wraps his arms around Severus's neck, thrusting his hips to increase the pace.

Past worries, fears, and doubts ebb away, and Harry just _feels_. The friction of Severus's flesh stroking him. The warmth from Severus's body and peppery magical power against his own. The ticklish strands of Severus's hair on his cheek. But what he feels is more than purely physical. It's tenderness. It's possession, almost to the point of devotion. It's— Harry gutturally screams his release, his come coating Severus's palm and dripping to the floor. With Harry's climax, there isn't a one-sided exchange of magic. Instead their magic dances between them, strengthening their bond.

From Harry, Severus feels a spark of something that he's never allowed himself to accept; something he gave up the hope of ever having for himself and, cock spurting, he joins Harry in absolute bliss.

* * *

Softly spoken conversation and laughter linger in Harry's mind as he squints open an eye. Through his hair, he catches sight of the angled shadow of his bed made by the creeping sunrise.

With his increased level of magic, Severus moves the hair obstructing Harry's view. _Good morning_.

Smiling, Harry hoarsely responds, "Good morning."

"Good morning," echoes from behind Harry. "I'm glad you're awake."

Harry flips over and, from the bathroom, sees Draco striding towards him wearing a silk, black-and-green-striped dressing gown. As he walks, glimpses of his long, bare legs peek through from between the fabric. His hair is still damp and disheveled from bathing, and his skin flushed from the hot water. He's delectable.

"I never had the opportunity to tell you before you jumped me like nundu in heat" —Draco removes his dressing gown, tossing it on top of the bed, and picks up a clean mint green shirt laid out—"that Severus's credits were transferred to you."

Tearing his eyes away from Draco's lower region, Harry stammers, "T-That's…great."

Draco pauses from buttoning his shirt and says with sarcasm, "Don't knock me over with your graciousness, Harry." He grins and begins to climb onto the duvet. "But I guess I should be thanking you…for last night."

"Uh…" —Harry scurries off the other side of the bed— "yeah… about that…

Crawling across after Harry, Draco hums with interest.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you, but—"

Standing so close that Harry can feel his breath, Draco leans in and whispers, "Then don't lie to yourself," and seals their lips.

Severus seethes. He remembers Lily. How he chose not to act and lost her to another. Lost his chance at happiness, at love. _Never again_.

Draco is shoved aside a few stumbling steps. A second later, Severus fully materializes and, without havering over his decision, he cups Harry's face and gently kisses his lips.

Harry arms hang loosely at his sides for a moment before they drift up to encircle Snape's torso. The kiss isn't fervent but sweet, a first real kiss.

Draco's eyebrows slowly rise with consternation as the kiss turns passionate. Severus opens his eyes and stares fixedly at him. Huffing out a breath, Draco grins and gives a nod, accepting the other's man's claim.

Eyes burning with triumph, Severus releases Harry's face, admiring his kiss-swollen lips and half-lidded eyes before fading away. _You're mine_, _Harry Potter_. Harry touches his sensitive lips and smiles.

* * *

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